Adaptations: USS Enterprise
by Ablutionary
Summary: Spock's life aboard—and glimpses of it before—the Enterprise; ranging from his rocky comradeship with James Kirk, his failed relationship but steady friendship with Nyota, to his eventual romance with one Leonard McCoy. With the occasional mission throwning things around.
1. Tension I

"Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Her ongoing mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life-forms and new civilizations; to boldly go where no one has gone before." *****

* * *

**Disclaimer: **The specific ordering of the words that makes this particular storyline is the only thing that is mine. Everything else belongs to the corresponding creator of it.

**A/N** Alpha shift starts at eight, beta shift at twelve, gamma shift at four. And delta shift at twelve.

If you submit a quote, I will fashion a chapter after it.

PM me if you want warnings.

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"Everything's fine today, that is our illusion." Voltaire

* * *

Tension I Friday, April 13th, 2258

I make my way across the cavernous shuttle bay, towards the Captain and the newly commissioned shuttles crafts. The reflective surfaces and high roof give this part of the Enterprise an inspiring feel, only increased by the fact that this is the proverbial gateway to new planets, places that have never before been explored.

I take a moment to stand with the Captain once I reach him, our silence mutual as we both prepare for the first explorative mission that Starfleet command has graced us with.

Then, I speak, "The shuttles have been checked over, sir?" I doubt that either of us desire for anything to go wrong with this mission, so it is best to be prudent. My job as First Officer is to support the captain, and with him as new to his post as he that is best done by questioning him.

"It will be fine Mr. Spock. They were checked over just last week." Kirk placates, beginning to rapidly tap his index finger against his thigh while his voice rises. "I can't believe that you're superstitious." He manages to say from between his clenched teeth. It appears that the captain had found viewing this room as relaxing as I had, and that my words have taken away from that, leaving only the tension from nervousness behind. That is, I suppose, understandable.

"Maintenance was nine days ago Captain, I believe that is not a standard week. They_ should_ be checked over prior to their first use." I contradict, at the same time trying to figure out the meaning of the captain's words immediately prior. Is there a superstition specifically related to this situation? Further, it appears that his tense state is affecting me somewhat, as I am well aware that I am now responding with a defensive state of my own.

"Close enough Mr. Spock." Kirk replies, then snaps once more, "We are not delaying a simple mission of scanning for dilithium deposits when doing so is needless." He is breathing slightly heavier than is his norm.

I stiffen. "Proper care of shuttlecrafts is not needless." I pause before the, "Captain." This is not going well.

His next words come once he evens out his breathing, and each is said very clearly. "_Commander_ Spock, you will either stop questioning my orders, or you will not accompany the away team." He does not pull rank on me often; my pause must have been noticeable.

The captain is now tapping his entire closed fist against his thigh, while pointing towards the shuttle—an inspiring new model that I have not yet had the luxury of piloting—with his right hand as though that is how to properly give a command to another person. As such I move to join the rest of the away team in the shuttlecraft; arguing with him now, in the state that he is in, would resolve nothing and thus is illogical.

And, it is only logical to remove myself from the source of my tension.

However, before I am completely removed from his hearing range, with my back still facing him, I cannot resist saying, "Yes, Sir." The tone is neutral and I tell myself that I was only acknowledging my willingness to follow his orders. It is not because, ever since the Narada, when he is not trying to be polite he has been able to incense me in a way nobody else has yet managed.

He is—

_"The test itself is a cheat, isn't it? I mean, you programmed it to be unwinnable." He accuses, as though it is his right. _

_"Your argument precludes the possibility of a no-win scenario." I explain, although I do not have to._

_"I don't believe in no-win scenarios." Is his ignorant reply_

_"Then not only did you violate the rules, you also failed to understand the principal lesson." His unwillingness to accept a simple reality is unbelievable; it is the very height of illogic._

_..._

**_"_**_We are traveling at warp speed. How did you manage to beam aboard this ship?" I demand._

_"Hey, you're the genius. You figure it out." He defies_

**_"_**_As acting captain of this vessel, I order you to answer the question." _

_The insolent reply is a "Well, I'm not telling, "Acting Captain." What, did...?" He changes his expression to smug arrogance, lips curling up in an impersonation of a smile. "What, now, that doesn't frustrate you, does it? My lack of cooperation? That-that doesn't make you angry?"_

_..._

_"Now, what is it with you, Spock? Hm? Your planet was just destroyed, your mother murdered, and you're not even upset!" This human seems to have developed a habit, in a short amount of time, to constantly make it seem as though I need to provide defense for my actions._

_"If you are presuming that these experiences in any way impede my ability to command this ship, you are mistaken." I seem to have developed a habit of answering him. It is not logical and I set my mind to call, once more, for security. _

_"And yet you were the one who said fear was necessary for command. I mean, did you see his ship? Did you see what he did?" I pause, as there is a chance that he finally understands the purpose of the test he cheated on, a chance he may yet listen._

_I am curious where he is going with this, so I allow him a chance to continue on his course undeterred by simply answering, "Yes, of course I did."_

_"So are you afraid or aren't you?" _

_Ah, it is yet another accusation. "I will not allow you to lecture me about the merits of emotion."_

_He begins moving towards me. "Then why don't you stop me?"He comes close enough to invade my personal space, in an obvious and immature attempt to use physical force to intimidate me._

_"Step away from me, Mister Kirk." I offer him yet another chance._

_"What is it like not to feel anger ... or heartbreak ... or the need to stop at nothing to avenge the death of the woman who gave birth to you?" _

_I give him a _last_ chance. "Back away from me."_

_"You feel nothing! It must not even compute for you! You never loved her!"_

_—_infuriating, at times. **** **Perhaps I should consult with Nyota on this matter.

I board the shuttle craft, and the team that is on it with me consists of security officers Bensen and Davison and science personnel Lieutenant Alden and Crewman Darnell. Davison offers me a small smile from the co-pilot as Bensen, sitting behind her, is again asking her if she is _sure _she is prepared. Alden, in the very back, is too busy reviewing the scientific details of the mission to note my presence. I suspect that as is usual when I go on scientific missions with him that I will have to inform him as to when we have landed. And Darnell has his feet up on the back of the pilot's seat, idly kicking at it. He does not bother to greet me past the rather loud sigh that coincided with my entrance.

I take the last seat available—the pilot's seat—and start reviewing the information on the control panel, every so often flicking at the switchboard. If the captain will not allow me to perform a routine maintenance on the shuttlecraft, I will need to do what I can from within its small confines and within the set fifteen minute timeline. The lack of a viewscreen is slightly disconcerting, makes the shuttlecraft seem even more confining. I flick at a toggle that is currently inactive before internally reprimanding myself for such an action and continuing on with _only _tasks that are absolutely necessary.

Right now it is safer in the shuttlecraft than it is on the Enterprise.

* * *

*****Dialogue from Spock prime, taken directly from the Star Trek (2009).

******Dialogue between the two em dashes prior the asterisks taken directly from Star Trek (2009).


	2. Separations I

"The hardest thing to learn in life is which bridge to cross and which to burn." Russell

* * *

Separations I Saturday, February 11th, 2258

By her request we have dragged the mahogany seats from their separate ends of the small round table, which is the focal point of her room, and now have them facing each other without anything in-between them.

She's leaned towards me, from her seat on the right of the room, hands in mine and running soothing circles over them. Her distress that I can sense through the physical contact is not soothing. And it increases immediatly before she speaks. "We'll still be friends." Lieutenant Nyota Uhura says, and then she lets go, servering her connection with me. She sighs, a wistful action, "We'll always just be friends, won't we?" She is smiling, but it is not the smile I am used to seeing on her from long nights of of listening to, and eventually playing, music with her—usually it was classical, but I can pull up a memory from each genre if I am so inclined.

Right now, I am not so inclined. "Indeed." A pause. "Nyota." I give a nod of acknowledgement before I rise and depart from her abode.

* * *

In my own assigned rooms I begin to meditate, using the small blue mat I have borrowed from one of the recreation areas. It reminds me of the blue that coloured my temporary captain's eyes, and I am not sure how I should take that. He is—

_"How the hell did that kid beat your test?" _  
_"I do not know."_

—an enegma. I slip fully into my meditations, allow the heat to wash over me, the dryness to replace this overly humid enviroment ...

* * *

_...the heat is pounding me towards the sand, the dryness cracking through my skin._

_Now that we have time to rest, I look up at T'Khut—The Watcher—a sight hard to miss as it takes up half of the sky. Most days she is just part what is, but today ... today it feels as though I have been watched over by a force I could not dream to understand. I look for and find T'Rukhemai, the watchers eye. It is quickly moving on to a part of it's orbit which I can not see, and I watch it depart from view. I allow my illogical thoughts to follow it._

_"You know, I'm joining Starfleet."_ _I look at the awkward—even if his body language seems assured—human. It wasn't as if we used our last few days to converse._ _He continues speaking, looking upwards at me from where he has decided to lounge on the ground of the Sas-a-shar desert. "Mom's the Captain of the Farragut."_

_I tilt my head in confusion. Why does he feel the need to share this with me, and thus disturb my rest? "You expect that due to your parent's position, you will do well in Starfleet?"_

_His smile doesn't slip. He tries to brush some of the dull red sand from under his cheek bone and only manages to dirty it more. "And so would you."_

_I freeze, with a feeling near that that had overtaken me momentairily when we had fallen off of the edge of a canyon; if there had not been a ledge shortly below the summit we walked staight off of, we would both be dead now. To discuss such a personal issue on Vulcan is unheard of. "I do not understand." I have already applied to the Vulcan Science Academy, to change my choice now would be unheard of. To apply anywhere else would be an indicator that I do not truly desire the position._

_"I'm _proposing _that you join Starfleet. You don't belong here." He says it as though it is obvious; a fact rather than opinion. He tosses his hand up slightly, shoulder following in a shrugging motion, actually making his comment off-hand. We have being trekking across the Womb of Fire (aptly named) until now and he thinks it is logical to discuss a matter he is not even invested in. _

_I feel a slight anger at his words that causes my hands, neatly held behind my back, to clasp. Unclasping them is a force of will, "Just because I am not fully Vulcan does not mean that I do not belong." I want to get this sand out from underneath my fingernails, but I manage to drive it further in-between the nerves and the nail as I decide to simply allow my hands to stay clenched into fists. These past few nights, lacking in any form of rest or meditation, have obviously allowed the anger to slip into my words and actions. I should perhaps, be some kilometers north, at Mt. Seleya._

_He's still smiling, "Huh, didn't know that." Almost to himself, then, "You do belong, just not here." His voice goes from blithe to certain with that statement. He leans forward, balancing precariously on the balls of his feet, with his elbows on his knees and head in hands. "May as well see if Starfleet is any good for you."_

_"What is your logic?" I defend. _

_"We could have made it across the desert."_

_I am still confused as to his line of reasoning, "I do not understand the relevance." I wish that it was not my nature to question things that I do not understand, as I did not intend to speak._

_"It was your choice to go back. I don't think that was too logical; for all we knew, the hostages were already dead. Probably dead." He frowns, "What, do Vulcan's expect it to be alright if you leave people with _very insane_ people."_

_I ignore his last comment as I have found that they _do_. I focus on his first comment instead and I do not deny it as I am not prone to lying; instead I make it into a point that furthers my argument. "I believe that aiding Vulcan's survive indicates I do belong here." I defend again._

_"Nope. You helped sentient beings survive, big difference. You belong where you can help the most." He is leaning on his toes now, pressing even more sand into his face as he holds his fingers against his lips and grounds the heels of his hands into his chin. That he is obviously so emotional about convincing me to listen to him is a new experience._

_"Science is—" I begin, not quite sure how I will defend that doing science at a different location is better than at any other. The_ point_ of science is that it is a constant._

_"Nope, that's a bail out. You can do both. Take the science track at Starfleet, but _you can_ do more than just research." He seems to be vibrating, rocking quickly between the balls of his feet and his heels. _

_"I am seventeen, by Vulcan standards I am still a young child." After saying it I realize it is what could be termed a last ditch effort. I would scoff at my own words. _

_He does. He blots up to his feet, says loudly enough to attract the attention of the vulcan healers and their previously-hostage patients. "Right, you're telling me that because you're a different species I should treat you differently. That's bullshit."_

_"There are circumstances that could make an application to Starfleet particularly difficult for me." Why am still conversing with him? I should not have responded to any of his words. After thinking back on my own words I realize that I have began conceding to him, that somehow he has won the previous parts of our argument._

_"That's what the friend with the important mother's for." He says it like it is yet another obvious fact I missed. His body seems to lose all of its nervous energy that had previously just been building on itself. He is standing still. _

_With him calm, I find that my defensiveness naturally slides away, and now my shoulders relax marginally from their tense state, even if my hands remain tightly together in anticipation of my next words. "I ... do see your logic. I will consider the proposal."_

_"Good." He holds his hand out, "Name's David Rabin by the way." **This** is the human that Earth decided to send as part of a diplomatic envoy to Vulcan._

_I do not offer my hand, but it habitually loosens in preparation for the human gesture that, as a diplomat's son, I have become familiar with. "I am S'chn T'gai Spock." I do not state that I am of Vulcan; his ideas do have some merit._

* * *

_Lt. Uhura approaches me, managing to back me into a secluded corner in the otherwise chaotic boarding area. "Commander, a word?"_

_As she is addressing me by my proper title, thus making it an official matter, I seem to not have a choice. "Yes, Lieutenant?"_

_"Was I not one of your top students?" She asks in a fierce whisper._

_I do not see how this can relate to the crisis at hand so I answer, simply, "Indeed you were." I turn to go—I have a ship on which I am a senior officer, and I need to be onboard it _before_ it departs._

_Nyota follows, and, having caught up with me continues right where she had been cut off. "And did I not, on multiple occasions, demonstrate an exceptional aural sensitivity, and I quote, an unparalleled ability to identify sonic anomalies in subspace transmissions tests?"_

_"Consistently, yes." I do not bother with asking what the meaning of this is, as Nyota is bright. She will make her point clear when she feels that it is undeniable._

_"And while you are well aware of my own, qualified, desires to serve on the U.S.S. Enterprise, I'm assigned to the Farragut?" Nyota asks, not shouting only because she knows that it is not the time for such._

_"It was an attempt to avoid the appearance of favoritism." I reply evenly. And the Farragut, the Rabins, will keep her safe._

_Nyota, and I should have known (as she has never been anything less than determined) does not let it go. "__No. I'm assigned to the Enterprise."_

_Her points have been valid; if it is what she wants then I will not deny her. "Yes, I believe you are." I change the roster as I say it._

_"Thank you." _*****

* * *

I finish meditating. It would appear that I was wrong about the Farragut holding any safety, and T'Khut is no longer in my view.

I hold back a sigh as I realize that my meditation was too narrow in its focus. To complete t'san s'at—the intellectual deconstruction of emotions so as to control them—I need to be able to understand fully the emotion I am dealing with _in it's unique context_. It can not be just an abstract emotion. I should not have focused for so long on only my first meeting with David; I should have gone over his entire role in my life and, in understanding his actions, make it unnecessary for him to fufill that role.

And there is more happening in my life than the loss of a single Starfleet officer. T'Pring warned me well enough to not ignore any emotion and all that it entails, or to develop a set routine for dealing with any specific occurance. Doing either of those could create permanent neural pathways in my brain, leading to too much or too little emotion, respectively. Now—now I do sigh. It appears I have more meditating to attend to, in regards to another lost one. I have much more meditation to do even after that, in order to be doing it properly.

I will not be able to return the mat to the recreation area tonight.

* * *

*** **Dialogue for this scene, and the second one, is taken from Star Trek (2009).


	3. Induction

"I knew I had to make a sacrifice to do what I've always wanted to do." Norwood

* * *

Induction Sunday, February 12th, 2258

I pause before the entrance to the turbolift, which will take me directly to the bridge. Yes, they have let me aboard the ship but, I suspect, that is due to my newfound fame from helping save Earth more than from anything else. It may have helped that I am wearing my old science uniform from my service under Captain Pike.

I board the turbolift and input the command for the bridge, then I wait. And when the doors open onto the bridge I suspect that my visit does not come as a surprise to the current captain of the U.S.S Enterprise; there is no first officer on the bridge. I notice that the layout of the area, now that I have the time to appreciate it, is rather _efficient_ and _logical_. Each station is clearly defined, with the exception of navigating and piloting. The separate levels allow for a clear field of vision to each area, which is quite _thoughtful_. I had not failed to notice these attributes before, rather now I am noticing them anew because of the new crew aboard, making me take in each detail with which I have already become accustomed.

As for the crew itself, I am pleased to see Lieutenant Nyota Uhura finally where she belongs. Young Mister Chekov has more than proved himself capable during the recent crisis. Mr. Scott, though not on the bridge at this moment, did manage to beam three persons onto a moving Starship; until proven otherwise I shall take that as a suitable recommendation for him being here. Mr. Hikaru Sulu I am—

_An unfamiliar Lieutenant announces, "The fleet has cleared spacedock, Captain. All ships ready for warp."_

_Captain Pike gives the order to "Set a course for Vulcan." An order all other ships are following._

**_"_**_Aye-Aye, Captain. Course laid in." The new—pilot?—confirms._

_"Maximum warp. Punch it." Orders Pike as the first ship achieves warp. Pike waits until the last ship has left to ask "Lieutenant, where is Helmsman McKenna?" _

_"He has lungworms, sir. He couldn't report to his post. I'm Hikaru Sulu." I listen to him say, in a register a few octaves higher than he had previously been speaking._

_"And you are a pilot, right?" Christopher Pike asks the question I myself had been starting to wonder._

_"Very much so, sir." He replies even as he begins to hit numerous buttons that have no purpose to the function of us _leaving_ the spacedock. Before long he admits "I'm, uh, I'm not sure what's wrong here."_

_"Is the parking brake on?" Christopher asks, with more amusement than I am feeling at the moment. Vulcan could be under attack, and the Farragut could be on the losing end of the fight. It is not logical to waste time._

_"Uh, no. I'll figure it out. I'm just ... " _

_When he appears to have no clue what he is just doing I rephrase Pike's question. "Have you disengaged the external inertial dampener?"_

_His face turns slightly red and he hits a sequence into the console, "Ready for warp, sir."_

_—rather _unsure about; it seems to be mutual as I can notice him trying to covertly observe me. That, or he is attempting to discomfort me with constant scrutiny. As for Mr. Kirk, "Permission to come aboard, Captain?"

"Permission granted." Kirk says with a wide grin overtaking his features. And as for Captain Kirk, he is my commanding officer. As such, he demands my utmost respect.

"As you have yet to select a first officer, respectfully, I would like to submit my candidacy." Do to his first impression of me I add, "Should you desire, I can provide character references."

He does not request the character references. Instead, he does something unexpected by saying only "It would be my honour, Commander."

If it is true that he feels as such after my marooning him on Delta Vega, then, I believe serving under him shall be rather_ interesting_.

* * *

"Captain?" I say from beside him.

"Yes, First Officer Spock." Kirk tilts in the command chair to look at me, and seems to be suppressing a great amount of amusement. That is, if the crinkling near his eyes but yet lack of smile is anything to go by. I consider that he may have let me onboard only to hear his previous oppressor refer to him as captain.

I dismiss the idea as I have no way to verify it. "It has come to my attention that we are lacking a science officer. As that was my prior position on this vessel, I would like to submit myself as a candidate."

"Isn't there a rule against holding concurrent positions, or something?" Kirk says, tone not denying me, simply enquiring as he spins the chair three inches to his left then two to the right, towards me. He repeats the motion, precisely, throughout the rest of our conversation.

"There is nothing specifically stated against such. Further, we are currently experiencing a shortage of officers."

Kirk smiles, yet the crinkling surrounding his eyes has diminished, "Then consider yourself the science officer, Mr. Spock."

I nod, and although his words do not require a reply I say, "Thank you, Captain."

The indicators of a sincere smile returns to his face.

* * *

I listen, fascinated that the crew is acting in such a manner after the destruction that has happened. It is no secret that I deplore Nero ...

_"Your ship is compromised, too close to the singularity to survive without assistance, which we are willing to provide." I hear the captain say._

"_Captain, what are you doing?" I manage to ask him quietly._

_ The captain leans in towards me to reply. "Showing them compassion may be the only way to earn peace with Romulus. It's logic, Spock. I thought you'd like that."_

_ "No, not really. Not this time."_

_ Nero, the man who has destroyed Vulcan, interupts with "__I would rather suffer the end of Romulus a thousand times. I would rather die in agony than accept assistance from you."_

___ "You got it! Arm phasers. Fire everything we've got!" The Captain order, in reply to both myself and Nero._

... having gone so far as to promote violence in Kirk's handling of him, but _this _is equally deplorable.

"They didn't stand a chance." Interesting, that Sulu is bragging like the rest. He had seen death firsthand yesterday, including that of former chief engineer, Olson.

I dispose my nourishment into the recycler as I depart the mess. It is most illogical to eat when I have no appetite.

"I'm glad we won."

"Indeed."

I don't spare Lieutenant Uhura a glance as I continue moving. The small smile that would no doubt be on her face would be yet another too many. I reach my quarters without interacting with any more of the crew.

* * *

After 20.73 minutes, minutes spent trying to remind myself that yes this room is mine for the next five years despite the blank metal walls that do not indicate such, I decide it would be best if I were to meditate. It would be wise to find the source of my negative reaction to the simple celebrations that the crew has decided to engage in, and to come to terms with it so as to forestall any future reactions. I have yet to find a suitable object to use for meditations, so make do with the annoyingly bright blue mat once more.

* * *

_"Ya know, after becoming a distinguished graduate in only two years, heading straight into a a teaching position for an entire year isn't what I had in mind. Have you ever even heard of a summer vacation?" David says from his behind my office desk as I walk in. I close my office door behind me._

_"You are not the one in the set of circumstances you have described. Thus, what plans you had in mind do not matter." I stand at attention in front of my desk, out of pure habit._

_"Come on, a position aboard the Farragut just has your name on it." David whines out as he leans towards me, expression eager and the usual glint that appears in his eyes when he is attempting to convince me of something. He sighs when I do not respond, lets himself flop backwards into the metal starfleet issue seat that he is in, "You'll join Chris on the Enterprise for the odd deployment, but you won't even set foot on the same ship as me and mom. Why?"_

_Only just, I do not roll my eyes. He is prone to melodramatics. "The Farragut is your second home," I use his own terminology, "and if you recall, I moved out." Starfleet provides each of it's instructors with quarters on the campus grounds if they so choose._

_He mumbles, "You're taking that second home thing too literally." He slouches forward in my straight-backed seat, resting his head in his arms, determined to place all three parts of his anatomy against the cool metal desk, another starfleet issued piece of furniture. "What am I trading with you for all the study sessions you give me then?" He mumbles, the words muffled by the surface he is leaning on._

_"I am a professor, it is in my job description to provide you with tutoring if it is needed. And, be it as it may that I have taken your words to literally, I still have no desire for a permanent posting." I reply evenly._

_David takes care to look me in the eyes as he asks, "You're happy here, teaching?" The tone of the question is only slightly undermined by the awkward angle of his neck and tilt of his head. _

_I tilt my own head as I consider it, absently seat myself in front of my own desk. "I enjoy the discussions my classes engage in, and the research community within the academy."_

_David keeps looking at me intently, "So a scientific exploration vessel does not cover those requirements?" He says it slowly, as though in disbelief._

_We sit in silence for some time. It is a common enough, if not commonplace, occurrence between us that there is no awkward silence._

_"The ... violence ... is something I wish to avoid." I say it as though it did not take me the better part of ten minutes, 8.94 minutes, to utter. _

_He appears dejected, but knows better than to argue such a point. "At least come over for supper tonight, it's polenta?" He flashes a fake smile as the words leave his mouth._

_I raise an eyebrow. "To not come to dinner when you have obviously informed Nechama that I would be present would be most illogical."_

_He manages a sincere smile before he vacates my seat, taking care to return it to the position I had it in before he moved it, and exits before me._

* * *

I open my eyes, and try not to consider anything. Walking into my sleeping quarters I pause—there is a full length floor to ceiling window panel that allows me to watch the stars as well as the satillites, planets, comets, asteroids, and all other astronomical objects in the vicinity. Once I sit on the left edge of my bed, looking out of the window, considering nothing becomes substantially simpler.

* * *

*****Dialogue up to this point taken from Star Trek (2009).


	4. Delegation I

"The first rule of management is delegation. Don't try and do everything yourself because you can't." Turner

* * *

Delegation Monday, February 13th, 2258

I enter the geological laboratory once I am done with my regular shifts. The labs never cease to be inspiring, a tangible reminder of why I stay in Starfleet.

I finally see the person I am looking for, after I shift my attention from the equipment. I gain his attention and then gesture for Lieutenant Alden to join me as I inspect the lab. There are only a few others here, working on personal projects, and they do not look up at our movement. We walk between the aisles of countertops in silence for some time, each of us occasionally stopping to inspect specific areas further, before he speaks. "Congratulations on your...unique promotion."

"Thank you." I continue with what I came here to say, "My distinctive position is precisely why I wish to discuss certain organizational plans with you." I pause where I've found that most input a question. Satisfyingly I am allowed to continue without interruption. "As you are skilled in communication, I would appreciate if you were to streamline the science division's reports." It is something I would usually do before submitting reports to the prior first officer so that they could easily give the last captain information. And it is not a minor job; to streamline reports well requires interaction with persons from all labs. I unobtrusively place a hand against the base of the nearest piece of equipment—a centrifuge.

He smiles, teeth bright in contrast against his dark skin, "I was hoping you'd ask before you took on too much."

I refrain from tilting my head, surprised by his answer as I am, "Am I to take that as a yes?"

"You're to take it as an 'I would've forced you to if you forgot'." He lets out a hearty laugh, head slightly thrown back as he does so.

I raise an eyebrow at my colleague. "I do tend to forget such details."

He laughs again and briefly grips my shoulder, "Mr. Spock, I've seen you forget a shore leave before."

Lieutenant Alden was posted on my first commission to the Enterprise nine years ago and on many afterwards; I am surprised his observation is phrased as a singular.

"Captain Pike's orders were to relax, and I found aiding in the refit and repairs relaxing." The bright lighting in the lab is increased through its reflection against the multitude of polished surfaces. I remember installing the spectrometer that I know is in the room behind the door slightly to my right.

"I'm sure you did. Now, goodnight Mr. Spock." And it is said as more an assertion that I should sleep than that he is going to do so. He starts talking about his plans on how to streamline the reports, while walking me back towards the door to and from the lab. He finishes talking once we reach the door, and opens it in a clear gesture for me to leave.

* * *

Now that the Enterprise has left orbit, I suspect I am stuck with the brash blue mat for my meditations.

* * *

"_No! That goes over there." Armand barks at one of the lab assistants. One of the two who have not managed to get themselves out of this assignment. Some days, I wonder if I should be making this my last research project before I graduate, but I truly do enjoy working with Armand—when we make discovers it is always breathtaking._

_I hear the assistant say, "Of course _Saint_ John." Armand either doesn't hear or disregards it._

_After the assistants have left I try once more to persuade Armand to listen to others. "You are aware that they have given you a new title?" I adjust a scale as I speak._

"_Yes. What is it this time?" Armand asks without breaking from his work, hunching his shoulders inwards, both resigned and annoyed._

"_I believe it is Saint John 'who can do no wrong'." I lean and look over his calculations._

_He snorts. "Well, they're finally right about something. And it's a nearly intelligent play on St. John."_

"_Indeed. They are not stupid." I sigh, raise my voice slightly, "Armand."_

"_Yes." He snaps out, while scribbling more equations._

"_Delegation skills are necessary to succeeding as a lead researcher." I have uttered these same words 27 times during this project alone._

"_Fine. Then may you_ please _go grab the butane." He moves his shoulder slightly so I can no longer see his calculations—which is what he always does to start when most people try to get a look at them unfinished. _

_I actually do twitch. "We have enough." Combine the butane with the other flammable substances we are using and we have more than enough. _

"_No, we do not. I'll go get it myself." He stalks off. I let him, and then start reviewing his calculations again. That he did not take them with him was on purpose, and I should be glad for that small concession. So far I have only convinced him outright that we should not be using one of the central laboratories in case of an explosion._

_He is not back by the time I am done, and I attach my modified calculations to his with a paperclip. He is the lead researcher on this, and I will not disrespect him by changing his calculations when there is nothing technically wrong with them. _

_..._

_"24 injured, 5 dead in Explosion That Rocks a Third of The Starfleet Academy" I ignore the words scrolling along the bottom of the viewscreen. I would turn the display off if the bandages covering my burns were not restricting my movement._

* * *

Further, with the Enterprise deployed, I will not be able to visit Armand in Elba II's asylum for the criminally insane. I roll up the meditation mat, this time not irritated by the colour. It is much better than the red scene that is now on my mind.


	5. Christening I

**A/N** The quotes are supposed to give you an insight into the mood of the chapter. There's a reason structuralism didn't work out in psychology; we can't assume a person knows all of their thought process.

* * *

"If you can't ignore an insult, top it; if you can't top it, laugh it off; and if you can't laugh it off, it's probably deserved." Lynes

* * *

Christening Friday, February 17th, 2258

As I enter the turbolift after my rotation I am joined by the captain. "Mr. Spock, are you going to join us for the christening?"

I do not turn to face him. "I was not aware there was such an event, Captain."

Kirk coughs, looks down and fidgets slightly. "Well, it's not exactly formal." He stops fidgeting. "Just some of the crew in my quarters really, they should be there already." He smiles at me, "You'll come, right?"

I consider for a moment. It may improve crew moral and relations."I will accompany you."

Suddenly Kirk claps his hand over my shoulder. I force myself to display no outward reaction, which is oddly easier than I would have anticipated.

* * *

"Ya brought the ship's mascot." McCoy drawls from his spot on the floor.

Jim doesn't pause on his way to the kitchenette. "Play nice Bones."

Nyota smiles over from her seat. "It's nice to see you here Spock." If she wanted me here, why did she not invite me?

"Indeed, didna expect you to be here." Scotty, across from Nyota, says in surprise. That, at least, is an honest answer. And it explains why Nyota neglected to invite me; if she wishes to become closer to him then it is not logical to include her previous partner in such an endeavour. And, she is considerate, it may have been an attempt to spare me any discomfort.

Sulu and Chekov, sitting with their feet up and facing each other on the two person couch, do not pause in their conversation.

Hendorff, the chief security officer, appears to be slightly out of place standing near a wall. He is not leaning on it.

That Jim thinks fitting eight people into his quarters is a good idea is slightly disturbing.

Jim pours two glasses, "It's not exactly champagne, but it should do." He walks over and hands me one. "Scotty put a lot of effort into it."

"Thank you Captain. Mr. Scott." I hope that the glass Chekov is sipping from does not contain any alcohol.

Jim cringes, "We're off duty, Spock, it's Jim."

"Thank you Jim." I correct formally.

Scott calls out, "Yer welcome there, sir. Glad I could find a place to set-up on this here beauty." I decide to ignore that he has just admitted to an illegal brewing operation, and take the fact that he has clear initiative as a positive sign.

"And Cupcake, soften up and stop playing statue." Jim says to Hendorff before he slides down beside Bones and pats next to himself. He says to me "Well, take a seat."

As I sit McCoy decides to needle again. "You know you didn't _have_ to invite him, Jimbo."

Jim glowers at Bones, "You're point is?"

Before he can reply I speak. "Doctor McCoy, if you have an opinion to express in regards to me, please express it _to _me." It is unfair that he draw Jim into our arguments.

"Hmmp." With that McCoy swallows his drink and leaves to refill it.

Jim runs a hand through his hair and sighs before saying, "Sorry 'bout Bones, he's just...still upset. You know, over the whole marooning thing."

I carefully keep my face impassive. "That is understandable." I am slightly curious, though, "However, why is he the one upset?"

Jim gives a wry chuckle, "He's my friend, Spock."

* * *

I am slightly uncomfortable. Jim has joined Sulu and Hendorff in security discussions, and McCoy does not seem inclined to interrupt them and thus leave me. Then there is Nyota who, along with Scotty and Chekov, seems to be discussing possible improvements to long range transmissions, which I do not wish to intrude upon.

McCoy takes a deep drink from his glass. "What are you doing here anyway?" McCoy asks, obviously irritated.

It surprises me for a moment that he has talked to me. "I was invited."

"Jim was jus' trying to be polite."He continues sipping his drinking.

It occurs to me that he is probably right. "If that is the case, perhaps you should ask him for advice on how to achieve such an act." I regret the words immediately, however, McCoy seems to be able to get under my skin. _Fascinating._

He does not miss a beat before replying. "While we're at it, he should give you a crash course on interacting with others."

I should have joined in one of the other discussions. Nyota would have not minded. I take a drink from my glass and do not respond.

McCoy continues, "You could teach him to be a statue in return." When I do not immediately respond he presses on, "See, like that." Followed by another sip from his drink, which at least thankfully forces the smug grin off of his face.

I force myself to respond, although I do not want this conversation to continue. "And in return for his advice to you, you could teach him how to be an alcoholic." I nearly cringe at my own words, and internally admit it was _not_ the best response I could have come up with. I should have censured my desire for our conversation to end before speaking.

McCoy doesn't respond for nearly too long, but then, "If you're around for much longer, he won't need my help."

I finish my drink and set it on the floor next to where McCoy has set his when it is not in his hand. "Goodnight, Doctor." This did not improve crew moral or relations.

I leave then, as there is a chance that the doctor is again right.


	6. Routine I

**A/N** Well ... if I need to say something, I may as well ask if anyone would like to review

* * *

"Doctors think a lot of patients are cured who have simply quit in disgust." Herold

* * *

Routine I Monday, February 20th, 2258

"Hold your horses, I need to finish up here." McCoy shouts as the doors _whoosh_ open at my entrance.

As there appears to be no one else working the delta shift and I cannot discern where the doctor is I raise my voice so it carries and call out, "To what horses are you referring?" The words are said in a neutral tone.

While I do understand expressions, having literally taught the course, I find McCoy's constant use of them illogical. As such I had previously decided to refute any knowledge of them in hopes that he would not communicate in such a way with me.

If anything he makes it a point to use them more around me than could possibly be anyone's norm.

"It means be patient." McCoy explains, abruptly beside me. "So, what can I do for you this fine day?" McCoy drawls out, sarcasm dripping off every word it can attach itself to.

I raise an eyebrow, finding it the most effective way to deal with the insincere inquiry.

"Right," McCoy says, "your medical check up." I am the last person aboard the Enterprise scheduled for it. My abundance of shifts had made the process unduly difficult. In addition, I suspect McCoy did not wish to deal with me until absolutely necessary.

"Seat yourself somewhere, I'll be back in a minute." McCoy disappears once more into the depths of Sickbay.

I sit on the nearest bio-bed, folding my hands from behind my back into my lap. 2.94 minutes later McCoy emerges.

He sets a tray down. "I can't scan you with these," he gestures to the bed I am on while scanning me with a medical tricorder, "because they're not calibrated to your biology yet. So we need to do a few things manually. First is eye dilation." His voice is the epitome of professionalism, as I've noted that it always is when dealing with patients.

He leans in with a penlight and with concentrated effort I remain complexly still. This close I can see that his eyes are hazel. "Well," McCoy states, "that's not too helpful." He sets the penlight back on the tray, for which I am relieved, and makes a note on my chart. "Your eye colouration is too dark to perceive much change in the iris. Better hope you don't hurt that precious brain o' yours."

He presses a stethoscope to my lower stomach as he says, "Now heart rate." A minute later the stethoscope is removed, "At least we can be sure that it _does_ beat." McCoy mumbles. Given his two unprofessional remarks, I silently amend my observation to as it always is dealing with patients who are not me. He writes down another note.

"Lastly, I'm going to be taking your blood pressure." McCoy retrieves the sphygmomanometer from its customary place on the wall. "Roll up your sleeve." He orders.

"I was under the impression that that is fundamentally needless for accurate results." I say, tilting my head in curiosity. Nonetheless I'm aware of the arrogance McCoy will perceive in the statement. It is unavoidable.

McCoy breaks from his professionalism yet again to roll his eyes. "And here I thought I was the doctor." He waits a beat for me to reply, "Right, give me your fully clothed arm." He sighs out, seeming to decide that finishing the check-up is more important than fighting over such a minor point.

I hold out my arm, remaining still as the pressure of the device increases.

"Normal, for a hobgoblin." McCoy declares, "You're free to go." In a tone more indicative of how one would say, "Leave, now."

With McCoy finally removed from medical contact with my body, I see it safe to bait him. "I was unaware that I was captive before."

"You weren't, but if I'm forced to endure your company more than necessary, you might just get marooned on a planet before long." McCoy complains, looking pointedly at the door.

I have found that it helps McCoy to be able to argue with me, in that if he does he becomes slightly more amenable to the rest of the crew. So I continue baiting; better open hostilities than unresolved tension.

"I find myself agreeing with the sentiment." I stand but do not move to exit. I find that his responses do carry a certain amount of wit, despite my expectations to the contrary. I had thought that his emotionalism would remove any subtlety from his conscious form of communication.

"What, you'd like to maroon yourself too? Maybe you're not so different from the rest of us." McCoy parries, with his arms now crossed over his chest and foot tapping in impatience.

As I have come to expect his response is up to par—I would flinch if not for the fact that I know I deserve the enmity. I nearly caused the destruction of Earth.

"If that is all, Doctor?" I calmly deflect. Displaying emotional distance from our arguments allows me room for a nonchalant retreat.

"I wish," McCoy mumbles, as much to me as himself. "I need to ask if there are any concerns I should be made aware of as the CMO." McCoy's already placing his instruments into their proper storage as he finishes the non-question, not even facing me.

I do not pause, heading towards the exit as I say "I will consider the matter." It is not a lie—it is close. I do not want him to know, and more importantly, he does not need to know. Not lying is _not_ an unquestionable moral maxim, and in this case not following the faux maxim is beneficial. It is even logical not to do so. I do not feel any guilt over my words.

"Also," McCoy's voice halts me, "I'm scheduling you for four more of these appointments this week."

I blink. "Why?"

"So I can _interface_ one of my bio-beds to you, now get out of my sickbay ya walking computer." It makes logical sense as he will need five data points to make a valid statistical inference, so he can correctly adjust the bio-bed.

I consider his words carefully before replying. "Thank you, Doctor." I appreciate his consideration. Even if given the schedule he followed today I will now have to set aside four hours this week.

As I leave he mumbles an "It wasn't a compliment."


	7. Routine II

Routine II, Appointments Tuesday, February 21st, 2258

The feeling of a sudden _sharpness_ pressing into my side causes me to wake with a start. I breath out slowly, as my physiology returns from panicked to normal. I should not have fallen asleep on my meditation mat. When I push myself up from the mat I brush my hand over the left side of my ribcage, feeling the slight distortion of a scar.

I go through the motions of my morning routine. Sipping blueberry tea while leaning on the kitchenette island, I wonder if this first nightmare will also be my last.

From across the room, a red light flashes on the bottom of my computer screen. I have a memo.

It appears that Dr. McCoy has made the necessary appointments, with the first beginning at the same time as alpha shift.

* * *

Sickbay

I am, the best term is, annoyed. I have been waiting in the sickbay for 20.75 minutes past the appointed time.

McCoy saunters in. He pauses, a smug smile on his face when he sees me. "Oh, didn't you get my memo?" He starts walking again, calls back without looking at me, "I had to reschedule to later." He punctuates his words by letting the door to a private room fall shut behind him.

* * *

Sickbay: Later

This time it is only fifteen minutes before McCoy walks casually into his domain.

"Sorry, forgot," he still has that smug smile, "must be a human thing." There is a slight remnant of a pinch in my side from this morning.

As McCoy is still just standing there, I let out a measured breath before speaking."Are you going to proceed this time, Doctor?" I ask, wanting to get this over with. It is the middle of beta shift.

"Yeah, just hang on." He waves his hand towards me, treating me little better than one does a misbehaving child. He then pulls out his PADD to check something. A few moments later he looks at me again, trying too hard to keep his face blank. "Would you look at that, I accidently double booked this time slot. I have some research to go do."

Right before leaving he casually says, "I'll rebook you."

This time I do not manage to get the words out to stop him due to my own inaction. I think, though, It is a good thing he decided not to proceed as my current blood pressure would not be a sound measurement.

* * *

Sickbay: _Later_

McCoy appears on time. Inconvenient, as I had already begun to settle in. It is near the end of beta shift, and I had to awkwardly leave earlier than the others. I suspect the point of the first two appointments were to make me miss breakfast and lunch. If so, it did not make any difference.

Finally, _finally_, he carries out the same procedure as he did yesterday.

This time, when he leans in with the penlight I notice the dark brown flecks in his eyes.

When he checks my heart rate I can hear the pattern of his own quiet breathing.

When he checks my pulse I can feel the pressure his hands use to apply the sphygmomanometer.

* * *

"You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast." Valente


	8. Dissolution

**A/N** The story summary does say "rocky comradeship ".

* * *

"Success is dependent on effort." Sophocles

* * *

Dissolution Friday, February 24th, 2258

"Spock, how about a game of chess?" Kirk asks, as he has begun to everyday, once we are heading for the turbolift together—our pace matching each with the others—as we usually do when we are finally done with alpha and beta shifts.

I reply with a formal, "Thank you Captain—"

"Jim, we're off duty now." Kirk casually informs me, again. Our paces are still even.

"Captain," I strain out each separate syllable, continuing where I had been interrupted, "but I am otherwise occupied." I calmly finish.

Kirk pauses for a second, and when he begins walking again I can hear each time our steps hit the ground separately. "Very well, Mr. Spock." Kirk replies, more coolly than before and with a tightening around his mouth.

Once on the turbolift we select different destinations, and stand on separate sides of the space. Usually, we will both stand in the center of the lift and converse during the short ride. Kirk departs at deck five, where both our quarters are located, sparing me a formal, "Good day, Mr. Spock."

"And yourself." I reply just before the doors close.

I depart for the science labs as I am scheduled—an action of my own—for gamma shift yet.

Only hearing one set of steps as I walk is tranquil.


	9. Solutions I

**A/N** This quote's more reflective of my view of Spock then the overall mood of the chapter.

An aside, even with the admittedly short chapters, I feel this story has good flow. Feedback on that (or anything) anyone?

* * *

"The secret of teaching is to appear to have known all your life what you just learned this morning." Unknown

* * *

Solutions Monday, February 27th, 2258

I am tempted to sigh. Chekov has already proved that he is more intelligent than this many times over. I do not look up from the science station as I call across the bridge, "Ensign Chekov, would you review this." After a pause in which I do not hear any movement I look up and gesture him towards my own station.

He walks over slowly, stumbling over his own two feet when he moves up the few stair steps that are required. When he sees what is on my screen he appears confused. "It vis my report, Commander Spock, sir."

"I did not ask what it is, Ensign. I asked you to review it." After he remains still I add, voice loud in the rare quiet that seems to permeate the bridge, "I suggest you direct your attention to line fourteen, and your equations concerning quantum electrodynamics." For a moment I feel as though my voice should have echoed.

He fumbles forward and after reading it a few times, lips silently narrating his thoughts, says aloud. "I have made a mistake, Commander. I am sorry."

I raise an eyebrow at his apology. "Irrelevant." He tenses again, and the entire bridge crew seems to tense alongside him. "Can you correct the calculations?"

He leans in once more and after a few long moment frowns, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "N-no, sir." He straightens and says almost confrontationally, "I cannot."

"Then at the end of shift your will report to my quarters." He doesn't move, "Dismissed, Ensign."

As he is returning to his station I notice the captain staring pointedly at me. When he sees that he has my attention he raises an eyebrow and enquires, "Mr. Spock?" His tone is neutral.

The combination is disturbing. "Yes Captain?"

He inclines his head towards Chekov without taking his eyes from me. "Care to explain that?"

"I intend to teach him how to correct the error." Was that not obvious? We cannot have force fields malfunctioning simply because one part of QED is not clear to somebody who is required to understand the subject matter.

Kirk nods and says almost to himself, "That's actually not a bad idea." He looks directly at me again, "Maybe see if he needs help with anything else while you're at it?" As he speaks his posture, and that of the entire command crew, returns to its norm.

I nod. "Of course Captain, he is free to ask questions as he pleases." I realize that it may prove beneficial if I, so to say, spell it out, "As is anyone." I raise an eyebrow. I find that doing so causes others to reveal their own interpretation of the situation by the meaning they draw from the monotonous act. In situations like this, where I appear to have violated a social norm, it is of immense aid.

Kirk is still looking at me, and I can't read his expression. When he speaks his tone is its norm. "That's nice to know."

Sulu seems to be glaring at me, has been since the start, which is disturbing as he really should be piloting.

I return to my duties and begin reviewing the science report of Lieutenant Alden. I pause; he attached a personal observation in regards to Crewman Darnell. He does not feel that Darnell is adapting well, if at all, to military life. I will speak with him later to ask how he has drawn this conclusion, and what his views are on a possible solution. The rest of the report appears correct and I send it to the captain's terminal.

As per my norm I send a message to Lieutenant Alden, containing my thanks for his effort, as well as my thoughts so we may have a dialogue on any matter he so chooses.

* * *

"And this here, it does this, right?" Chekov asks enthusiastically as he finishes another equation.

"Quiet correct, Ensign." I write down yet another one, this one combining QED with a multitude of other theories I know he is adept with.

This one takes him longer than the first few, but with some reminders he finishes. I look over it carefully, pleased at the lack of any error and the efficient order in which I saw him work through the steps to get to this point. "That should be enough, you appear to understand it fully. You should, however, continue studying" I fold the paper neatly.

Chekov smiles no less brightly than the captain can, which is no minor feat, "Thank you sir. And I vell keep learning and practicing, it is important." His entire face seems to brighten further when he acknowledges his work as important. I move off the couch, to the doorway, and Chekov follows suit. "Although, I know I should know this. Sorry for wasting your time." It is disturbing to see the former levity on his features; crinkled eyebrows, flushed out checks, and lips stretched taunt over teeth in a genuine grin, fade in a guarded expression that manages to belie his fear of judgment in the nibbling of his teeth upon his lower lip.

I pause, only halfway to the door, and turn to face Checkov fully. "You could not have been reasonably expected to know this information, Ensign. You were promoted out of Starfleet Academy before finishing your courses, due to any emergency situation. As such, I find this a reasonable use of my time." I turn before he can respond and once done with the few remaining steps to my door finish my statement with, "Good day, Ensign." I hand him his papers.

He holds himself at attention instead of going and nervously says, "Do you know Dr. Daystrom's work?"

"Indeed." When he seems to have difficulty formulating a response I make an inference. "If you wish to go over his concepts, this time next week should suffice."

Chekov nods once, smile returned, "I do. Thank you, sir."


	10. Relationships

**A/N** I don't imagine Spock and Uhura were dating long, or at all, before the movie. But they could have been. For all purposes here, it doesn't really matter.

* * *

"When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us" Bell

* * *

Relationships Thursday, March 1st, 2258

There is a knock on my door. It is less obtrusive than the ringing mechanism most use, or even than the comm. unit placed on both the exterior and interior of my wall. I am surprised that anyone would knock though, considering if they were to knock on anyone else's door they would not be heard. Before answering I dispose of my breakfast.

"Hey, can I come in?" Ah—it is not a surprise that she has been considerate enough to knock.

"You may, Lieutenant Uhura." I move aside.

She smiles lightly to me, yet despite her prior words stays within the entrance to my room. "You can still call me Nyota, Spock."

I nod my acknowledgment. "Of course, my apologies. May I offer you a drink, Nyota?"

"Water, please." She moves, has to repeat the step when she hesitates in the middle of the motion, and seats herself at my table.

I pour a glass for both of us and sit across from her.

After taking her first sip she says, "I came by to let you know that I'm seeing Scotty."

Although I cannot think of any reason for her to inform me of this, I make what I think is an appropriate reply. "Thank you for your consideration."

Nyota looks at me with open curiosity. "I just thought to tell you, because some of the crew might be curious about your reaction."

Ah. "Thank you for the forewarning."

She lets out a chuckle. "No problem, as amusing as it would be, I can't just throw you to the wolves."

I relax internally. It seems I still do have somebody to associate with.

Nyota seems to relax too. "I was worried I'd have nobody left to girl talk with." She teases my distinct lack of knowledge about what is appropriate to discuss, which I have displayed on prior occasions. She lets out a sigh. "I miss Gaila."

I think on what to say at length. "She would be glad that you are in a relationship."

Nyota smiles again. "She would be." The smile slips.

I lean forward and say in a conspiratorial whisper, "I believe she would also enquire as to what physical aspects of Mr. Scott you are attracted to, in detail." If Gaila is not here, then Nyota _will_ need somebody else to have girl talk with. I do not see any logical reason to not fill this role for somebody I value.

Nyota smiles once more. This time it does not slip. It does, however, turn slightly sly before her next words. "There is his voice, its tremor is _just made_ for serenading." She is now leaning in, and we are as two people plotting over a table.

I nod, and in complete seriousness reply, "I will attempt to determine the wavelength."

She continues, apparently aware that I am attempting to cheer he up and willing to comply, "Then there's the enthusiasm, even if he does compare me to the ship." She sighs dramatically, "A lot."

"She is, and I quote, 'a thing of beauty'."

Nyota's smile spreads to her eyes, fully, finally. "Then there's the stubble, you've got to love that texture. It just warms you right up."

Without thinking I reply, "Indeed, it can be most fascinating and _ticklish_."

Suddenly, Nyota is fixing me with a piercing look. "Spock, are you ...?"

I tense. "I do not know to what you are referring to." I reply, neutrality once again covering my tone and features. I slowly move to sit up straight

She asks, quite bluntly, "Are you gay?"

I remind myself that this is Nyota, that I have known her for over four years. She is still leaning forward, still trying. Without breaking from my neutrality I say, "Mr. Scott does have a rather appealing posterior."

Nyota bursts out laughing, clutching the table in front of her for support. When she is done she looks at me, with a peculiar softness in her eyes, "Don't worry Spock, I won't tell anyone." She pauses in consideration, "Well, I might point out that Scotty has a nice ass, I just won't mention who said it first."

"Thank you." I tilt my head in acknowledgment of her kindness.

She glares at me instead of responding, "I just wish you'd told me before I thought we were dating."

My ears turn slightly green, "I value our association and did not wish to lose it."

"And you haven't, rafiki." She sits up, but only so she may put her hand on the uniform covering my shoulder, "It's like I said, we'll always be friends." This time there is no wistfulness as she says it, just a reassuring tightening of her hand on my shoulder—that is before she uses her grip to make me lean forward again in synchronization with her.

After that point our conversation digresses to what other physical aspects of Mr. Scott are appealing, until she has to leave for delta shift.

* * *

*****Rafiki: Friend, in swahili.

(Inspiration for which is drawn from another fanfiction called "Observations").


	11. Seating Arrangements

**A/N **I personally think that they wanted to talk to him to make sure he was okay, but hey, they probably wanted gossip too and that's all Spock saw.

* * *

"And I'm ready for the fakes. Ready to take off. Run some people over." McAfee

* * *

Seating Arrangements Friday, March 2nd, 2258

It would appear Nyota was correct, and she often is; half of the ship gossip seems to be on her new relationship, the other half on my reaction to it.

Given such, I am not surprised when Jim waves me over to eat breakfast with himself and McCoy. I should have brought more tea supplies with me, so I would not have had to come to the mess at all. On the next shore leave I will make a point to buy more than I think I need.

I walk to their table but do not seat myself, opting to stand at attention. I wait for their inquiries.

"Really," McCoy rolls his eyes and reaches for my arm, "you're supposed to sit when ya eat." He finishes, while pulling me into the seat next to him. "So, spill." McCoy says, immediately spooning a mush like substance into his mouth afterwards.

I swallow a spoon of polmeek broth before answering. "Spill what, Doctor? I assume it is an expression." Another spoonful and I feel the sudden urge to devour my food, the same way McCoy is.

I suppress it. I have control over what is put in my body.

"What do you think about Uhura and Scotty?" Jim asks, leaning forward, yes, but while making his body cover less surface area as if in protection.

McCoy nods eagerly and swallows before saying, semi-mockingly, "An' don't leave out the juicy details."

I swallow another spoonful before answering. "I am unaffected by it."

"Your girlfriend goes out with another guy, and it doesn't affect you. Yep, you're a computer, through and through." McCoy outright mocks. Jim gives him a sharp glance, but otherwise does nothing.

"Lieutenant Uhura is not in a sexual relationship with me." I explain.

Jim coughs suddenly, seeming to be having difficulty with his food.

As he is a doctor, I am slightly confused as to why McCoy is not helping his friend. "Fine, your ex-girlfriend, and you don't feel anything." McCoy amends, still mocking. Jim is too indisposed to glare at him for it this instance. I remain silent.

"Right then." McCoy snorts, and realising he isn't going to get an answer he goes back to eating _something_.

"If that is all?" I don't wait for an answer as I rise from the table, not wanting to overstay my welcome.

"Sit back down," McCoy grumbles without looking at me, "you're not done eating. And it's_ illogical_ to waste food.

I sit back down, if only to avoid having to explain doing something illogical. I furrow my brows slightly, to convey confusion. "What _are_ you eating, Doctor." I am not hungry at the moment, and conversation seems a viable way to avoid having to finish my food.

"Grits, ya should try em sometime."

"What are grits?" I keep my brows furrowed.

McCoy rolls his eyes before answering, in irritation, "Jus' ground corn." I finally un-furrow my brow and open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off with, "And so help me, if you ask what corn is, I am not trying to explain it." He adds a mumbled, "Hell, I might just bludgeon you with something. Heavy."

I raise an eyebrow, "I was merely going to ask if it is similar to polenta. Further, the point of bludgeoning generally requires heavy objects; your addition as such was illogical."

Jim, who had previously won the battle with his food, seems to want to engage in a war with it.

McCoy fumbles with his fork for a moment as he looks surprised before saying, "They're pretty much the same thing, grits is just more porridge-y." He is slightly red, as is Jim, who he stll has not helped.

I raise my brow higher, "Porridge-y, Doctor?"

"Yeah, you know, porridge-y." McCoy shrugs as he can't find any other way to explain it.

Jim lets out a snicker, having just won the second battle, garnering both our attention. "Sorry, it's just, watching you two try to actually talk to each other. It's almost painful. You know, like somebody's _bludgeoned_ me."

I look at Doctor McCoy again, "I am rather fond of polenta. I shall endeavour to try grits at some point." I let my face turn completely neutral again.

McCoy finishes his breakfast, stands, "See you both tomorrow."

After he has left the mess, I ask Jim, "Is 'see you tomorrow' a common way to say goodbye?"

Jim looks across the table at me, from his overly meat dish, "I think," and he sounds somewhat confused himself, "that he actually expects to see you tomorrow."

I keep my face blank, although I am not sure what it would show if I allowed it the freedom of expression. "Our schedules have no points of commonality, why would he expect such an occurrence?"

"Well, you'll be having breakfast with us again, why not tomorrow?" Jim shrugs.

I look back over our conversation and that realize that yes, I have in inadvertently committed myself to at least one more breakfast with them, because if that is how they have both taken it then it would be an offence not to show up. "Indeed." I stand, with my half finished polmeek broth, "Enjoy your breakfast."

Hopefully it does not kill him.


	12. Conflicts

**A/N **As an added bonus, I get to apply this quote to a setting which in general is a "frictionless vacuum", i.e. space, and a "nonexistent abstract world", i.e. Star Trek.

* * *

"Change means movement. Movement means friction. Only in the frictionless vacuum of a nonexistent abstract world can movement or change occur without that abrasive friction of conflict." Alinsky

* * *

Conflicts Monday, March 5th, 2258

After my rather engaging conversation with Chekov, about both the tactical and moral implications of a computer the type Dr. Daystrom believes he can create, I meditate on another matter—thoroughly—that has being occupying my mind before deciding to discuss it with the captain. It probably does not help matters any that my meditation mat serves to incite my temperament into a further negative state on the subject. Some days the first few minutes of my meditation are wasted on vividly picturing throwing my meditation mat out of the nearest airlock. While it is a form of catharsis, I am well aware that actions people often claim as cathartic have no lasting effect on their behavior. As such, the mat further annoys me for the time it manages to waste.

When he answers his door he seems surprised to see me, nonetheless, "Would you, uh, like to come in?"

"Indeed Captain." He moves to the side, and I opt to stand at attention in the centre of his quarters.

Kirk chuckles and slowly nods his head from side to side, "I don't suppose you'd like a seat Mr. Spock?"

I suspect if I were to make use of his offer he would come to regret it with my next words. "No thank you." I continue, to the words that he will not like, "I wish to discuss Doctor McCoy's speciest remarks."

Kirk sighs loudly and runs a hand over his face, mutters without looking at me, "He doesn't mean them."

I raise an eyebrow. Kirk interprets the gesture as meaning that I require more of an explanation, "At least, not as an insult to your species." A quiet and quickly added, "I think."

I tilt my head slightly in consideration, aware of Kirk examining me as I do. "The remarks are meant as an affront to me, personally?"

Kirk nods, enthusiastically. As afraid I will not understand it if he does not affirm my own conclusion, surprised that I have even come to such a conclusion even. "Yeah, although I think he's finally calming down some." He assures with the words rushed out, one right after the other and no breathing in-between them.

When I am prepared to talk again Kirk adds, "You know what, he insults me too, Spock. Kid, idiot, narcissist, papa's boy, I'm sure there's more." And then he shrugs, a gesture I do not fully understand the meaning of in this context. "A lot more."

"And you do not take offense?" I say slowly.

"Nope, it's his way of showing he cares." Kirk sits down, arms over the back of the couch, clearly slouched and sitting in a way that a male should not when in a females company. Or when addressing official ship business. "If that's all?"

"Captain," As he does not seem to be taking this seriously (there is no way that _McCoy_ is showing _me_ that he _cares_) my next words are necessary. "If his remarks become too derogatory or excessive, please note that I will file an official complaint."

"Understood Mr. Spock," And at what I think is dismissal the captain sits up on his couch, elbows on knees and head in hands, "just pay attention for the none bigoted stuff he does, kay? It should outweigh the names."

"I shall endeavour to do so, Captain." I turn in one smooth motion the instant I finish speaking the words.

Before I can reach the door Kirk adds, "And I _will_ talk to him."

I reach the door and leave.

* * *

In my quarters I decide to continue my meditations, minus the meditation mat, in order to further my emotional control. It would not do well to display any outward reactions to McCoy's incessant, annoying, continuous prodding.

Opening my eyes after my meditations I am pleased to not have any of my effort undermined by such a trivial matter as a blue mat. Standing, I am not so pleased at the ache that has overtaken my legs without anything to support them.


	13. Entertainment

**A/N **Substitute interesting for fascinating in this quote.

* * *

"Never say, 'oops.' Always say, 'Ah, interesting.'" Unknown

* * *

Entertainment Friday, March 9th, 2258

"Hey, hobgoblin." A voice calls from down the narrow corridor. I slow to let its owner reach me. "Are you off duty?" McCoy asks as he draws even with me.

"I am." I reply, continuing to walk towards the science labs. Just because I am off duty does not mean that I cannot continue to work.

"Well then, Jim wants you to join us for movie night." McCoy states, face drawn in distaste at the mere suggestion.

"I would not wish to impose." I reply absently although I am slightly curious, having never watched a television before; viewscreens differ from them slightly. McCoy does not want me there, thus it is illogical to consider the possibility.

"You won't be imposing." Kirk says, having appeared from an even narrower side hallway. "See, I told you I'd find him Bones." Kirk says happily, smile spreading wide.

Kirk clasps a hand over my shoulder and starts physically leading me away from the science labs, leaving me no choice but to comply to spending the evening in their company.

* * *

I suspected I will not be invited to movie night again. Admittedly, it could have gone worse. In the sense that we _could_ have spontaneously combusted. On second though that may have been ... I cut my thought process off as illogical.

In my defence, it was not my fault the circuitry had caught fire, but rather that of the faulty wiring I exposed in my examination of the mechanics behind the television.

_"Examination? Dammit man, stop taking it apart." McCoy exclaims. He is moving any part I set down to somewhere out of my reach. Any time there is nothing set down, he tries grabbling the components from my hands. Anytime he succeeds, I take another part from the television set._

_"Uh, Spock, maybe you should just **look**?" Jim says cautiously. He is putting yet another piece of the television—McCoy is handing them to him, as he is busy trying to keep up with me—behind the couch. At least, this time, it is behind the couch. I do not know where the other pieces are, as I am engrossed in my examination. Although it is a simple machine, and I understand it well enough in theory to probably make one if need be, there is a certain novelty in taking one apart._

All the same, I suspect I am not to be invited to movie night again.

I ruminate mildly that I would not have been moved to examine the circuitry if they had picked a more logical movie. The amount of coincidences that occurred in that romantic comedy hold the same statistical likelihood as that of time travel occurring spontaneously.

* * *

Entertainment, Continued Friday, March 16th, 2258

"Hey, we fixed the television." McCoy once again accosts me while I am off-duty.

I pause, incline my head slightly in positive acknowledgment. "I am glad to hear such." I continue towards the turbolift at my previous pace.

"So?" McCoy asks slowly like I missed something obvious, stopping before the turbolift doors.

"What, Doctor?" I finally turn towards him. It would be impolite to board the turbolift while engaged in a conversation, no matter that I do not think that this can be classified as such.

"Well, it took Jim hours just to find the entire damned thing. So, you'd better join us, ya pointy eared elf." McCoy huffs out, impatient. He boards the turbolift alongside me.

* * *

The action movie is just as illogical as the romantic comedy was, as the statistical likelihood of the main characters survival should have dictated the movies end much sooner than was the case. All the same ... I did find this use of my time to be agreeable.


	14. Tension II

**A/N** I was going to say something to the extent of, for something to be logical it must have a goal. Bearing that in mind, if the goal is to stop the explosion it's logical to cut the black wire. However, if the goal is to facilitate the explosion it's logical to cut the white wire. However, being a postmodernist I looked up a quote.

Ahem ... I have no clue where I got the idea that to facilitate an explosion, one needs to cut a wire. Generally, doing nothing actually does work for that one.

Enjoy.

* * *

"Logic is in the eye of the logician." Steinem

* * *

Tension II Friday, April 13th, 2258

I regain consciousness. I wish that I had not, before integrating it into my conscious mind that I _have_ and that now I need to do something. Something other than lose consciousness.

I close my eyes in an effort to ignore the sight before me as I struggle to regain my bearings. I have to further block out the scent of blood before I can focus. That done, I begin to give a context to my surroundings. I had been piloting the shuttlecraft. Then ...

_I notice an anomaly in the data the viewscreen is displaying. Specifically it is displaying calculation parameters for data collection, concerning direction, that by my calculations are 4.63% ± 0.33% incorrect. Such a percent of error is acceptable in theory. In practice, as each new calculation concerning direction builds off of the last, I now have no idea what the location is of the vessel I am piloting._

_I suspect this simple mission, as the captain put it, is to become complicated._

_"Officer Davison," I say in an even tone. I do not look away from the controls as I speak. I need to find a way to correct for this error, and I cannot think of what to do without any reliable facts to work off of. Not having reliable facts is the issue though, one that I need to find a way around. **Now**._

_"Sir?" She leans over from the co-pilot seat, a slight frown marring her delicate features. She looks to young for this job, although is is by far not the youngest member of the crew._

_"May you ensure that everyone is as prepared for heavy impact as is possible?"As I say it my mind is on another matter. How many calculations does this vessel model go through per second? Can I possibly correct for the accumulated error percentage, which I do not yet even know precisely? And if I do, then what? _

_Out of the side of my eye I notice her eyes widen momentarily, even as she releases her safety belt. I do not ensure that she is doing all that is possible, as _I _am doing all that is possible to prevent such an impact. I do hope however that she is retrieving the emergency medical supplies and using the heat blankets found in them to cushion the area between the others bodies and their safety belts. Educating them on the proper safety procedures, I find, is often wasted in emergency situations._

_I input the commands for the shuttlecraft to halt movement and to transmit an emergency signal on all available frequencies. Neither work. I input them directly into the scripts running the systems, which eats away at our time, and _still _neither work. _

_Officer Davison reappears at the front of the shuttlecraft carrying two heat blankets. She makes a curt gesture towards me and I nod. Without hesitating she manoeuvres a blanket between me and my belt, immediately thereafter securing herself into her seat. She does not attempt to distract me._

_With effort, as _I am not_ a computer and _I am_ trying to calculate faster than one, I manage to devote enough of my energy into gaining complete manual control of the navigational systems directional components, of which velocity control is not a property. If I survive this, I will write a formal complaint on such illogical organization. I can only trust that this part of the ships systems accepts direct input better than the prior. With yet another area of my mind, the part resigned to and preparing for the crash, I note that in the case of shock it is beneficial that we all have our own heat blankets readily available._

_The systems accept direct script input, which takes much too long to do. The best I can do is change the ships course and keep it straight, and not think about whether I am piloting us directly into the ground._

_The last action I undertake is utterly futile and involves flicking at a still inactive toggle._

Now fully aware I register the scene before me. Directly in my field of vision, only a shattered command console spattered across with green. Drenched across with red. I breathe in deeply and out slowly; I can be sick latter. I unbuckle my belt with my right hand, the one not pinned between myself and the console and turn to Davison's seat. She is breathing, and for I moment I pity her that. Then I suppress all feeling. Now I can analysis the scene before me; a blunt panel of the console torn away from the rest of the panelling and has imbedded itself into her right shoulder, and pieces of white—bone—are visible. It is beneficial that she is unconscious. I fall forward none too gently, let alone with any grace, and ensure that her heat blanket is active.

I look towards the back of the shuttlecraft, to determine the status of the others. Apparently, Crewman Darnell saw fit to loosen the blanket secured around him. His neck is broken. To confirm such, as the angle is not grotesquely off, I press my index and forefinger against the pulse point on his neck. I feel the bone shift slightly, as it was balanced just beyond the point of one broken portion separating from the other. Now the angle is very—impressionistic.

The emotions however leave no impression, and it takes me a moment of shock, that should not be there, I knew, I knew he was dead—before I draw my hand back and notice the new, horrible angle of his neck. I uncurl my other two fingers and thumb, and start breathing again.

Officer Bensen, or what is discernible as him, is crushed beneath a sizable boulder that must have been dislodged by our crash.

I close my eyes while processing this information. Miraculously, we were not too far off course; this geographical feature only appears on this planet in the area we were to scan for dilithium deposits.

Lieutenant Alden is still unaccounted for; I open my eyes. The first thing I notice this time is the exposed electrical wiring, still carrying a live current, hanging from the roof at the back of the shuttle. Behind Darnell and Bensen. Where Alden should be. I turn back to Davison.

I pause—I should have heard the static discharge from the wires. That I do not means either that I have hearing damage or am going into shock, with the "or" being used in the inclusive sense. I grab my heat blanket, activate it, and lean over Officer Davison's left side to secure it around the panelling embedded in her. I can only try to have confidence that the red spatter on the control panel is mostly Bensen's, or else she has lost entirely too much blood to survive. Next I need to move her from the unsafe confines of the shuttlecraft, and I need to do so carefully.

Fortunately the shuttle door is, eventually, movable.

It takes longer than I anticipated, and I know I should assess my injuries soon, but eventually I have Officer Davison secured behind an outcropping of rock, one with a fascinating cobalt blue pattern twining trough it, in case of an electrical fire from the shuttle.

I rest for a moment. Even with the physical exertion I feel improved for sensing Davison's pain as I moved her. After my brief rest I check to see if Davison's communicator is intact—it is. With that assurance I make my way back across the flat plateau of this summit to the shuttle.

The electrical wires are still live. Nonetheless it is my responsibility to determine Lieutenant Alden's condition. I make my way past Darnell's body—push it out of my head that he would have been _completely uninjured_ had he demonstrated proper discipline—and the piece's of Bensen. It would appear that Alden is merely unconscious and his injuries minor.

I dart my hand towards his body, equal parts voluntary action and protective instinct, and as I warp my fingers around his forearm a livewire snaps at my skin. Under the control of my parasympathetic nervous system my arm convulses towards my body. Thankfully I draw Alden with it, the electricity having made it impossible to let go.

I probably left bruising worse than his prior injuries. I let out a sigh, my control wavering from the literal jolt I received. As quickly as I can, I make it back to Officer Davison. I examine them both, palpitating their injuries (telling myself that confirming their _presence_ does not have any factor in my lingering touches) and checking for blood through their clothing, doing a full examination this time as I have no other priorities. Neither of their injuries are fatal; given this, I decide to rest a moment before contacting the Enterprise.

I pause in my rest. If I can afford to rest, I can afford to retrieve Officer Darnell's body. He deserves a proper burial, and there is still a chance of an electrical fire occurring and preventing such peace for his family.

* * *

I earned another electrical burn in the process. I cover Darnell with his inactive heat blanket. Finally, finally I flip open my—Officer Bensen's, I lost track of mine—communicator.

"Commander Spock to Enterprise."

"Report." Captain Kirk replies languidly, as it is common procedure to do so upon a successful landing.

I filter my next words without intending to. "Security Officer Bensen and Crewman Darnell are deceased. Officer Bensen's body is non-retrievable." Instead of "_The shuttlecraft malfunctioned, and...". _Instead of, _"Officer Bensen's body arrangement quiet matches with the tradition cobalt blue—of the impressionist period on Earth— which is covering him."_ I don't pause in my report, even as I my own disassociated thought mildly draws my attention, "Security Officer Davison requires medical aid. Lieutenant Alden is stable."

"Aff—affirmative."

In the pause that follows I notice my blue and_ green_ shirt. Hold the communicator slightly away from me to remove it, leaving on the equally covering black undershirt. There is no need for concern over my injuries, the worse I feel is slightly cold. I probably am in shock.

"Are the communicators intact?"

"A moment, Captain." My tone is even.

"_Of course_." Something bitter in his tone? The telltale hiss that his teeth are again filtering his words today.

Thankfully my communicator is the only one I lost. "They are intact Captain."

I find myself trying to identify the mineral coursing through the rocks without really realizing when I decided to systematically eliminate all the common minerals from the list, and move on to the semi-rare. I stop categorizing and let myself become aware of the emotions that are pulsing within my psyche. A moment later I feel the energizer beam.


	15. Rorschach

**A/N **If you know the website I got this quote from let me know.

* * *

"The Vulcan brain, in reordering neural pathways, can literally lobotomize itself."

* * *

Rorschach Friday, April 13th, 2258

As the energizer beam fades I stand at attention. I keep my arms behind my back in a manner slightly different from my norm; instead of them clasping together perpendicular to the floor, each hand clasps an elbow so as to keep them parallel to the ground. As I have already determined my injuries are minor, dripping blood on the floor and drawing concern is illogical. Officer Davison deserves undivided medical care.

That the medical team is already here is efficient. That it takes them 3.11 seconds to absorb the scene and respond properly is not.

McCoy and M'Benga are loading Davison on a stretcher as McCoy calls out, loudly, "Chapel, you have the lieutenant." I barely suppress a flinch. Interesting, I am experiencing sensitivity to noise—I suspect I have a concussion.

I suppress another flinch as the pain in my arm makes itself apparent. I am recovering from the physiological shock, apparently.

As the medical personnel rapidly vacate the area, the transporter room is left with just myself, the captain, and Chekov.

The Captain finally reacts, having stood silent and much too still throughout, "Are you alright Spock?" His voice doesn't hold any concern, it just has a pervading numbness. Or maybe I am still in shock and unable to focus on him.

_"There's no need to be anxious. You'll do fine."_

_"I am hardly anxious, Mother. And fine has variable definitions, fine is unacceptable."_*****

I do not nod. "I am fine, Captain." Nodding would be rather painful at this point in time.

Kirk exhales deeply, then gestures to the covered mound. "Officer Darnell?"

"His spine broke on impact." I have heard it is comforting to know another has died painlessly. Although Kirk does not appear relieved any to hear my explanation of events.

"And what happened to Bensen?"

The captain looks as though he needs to rest. His voice is calm, but he is slightly shaking. And Chekov, standing slack in shock at the transporter controls, does not need to know. "May I debrief you after being cleared by sickbay, Captain?" If I could not describe Darnell's death in a manner that decreased his grief, then I cannot describe Bensen's any better. That is, if anybody could.

I acknowledge the truth to myself, and phrase the words within my mind slightly differently; if anybody could, that is not me.

He nods eagerly, "Yeah, sure, go, make sure you really are alright." He looks down at the body again, "I'll stay here 'till they've calmed down enough to ... move ... him."

Chekov is frozen, as still as Darnell. I suspect that a part of him has died.

* * *

By the time I reach sickbay I think that I may have just, maybe, I underestimated my injuries. I assuredly do have a concussion. My arm is at the least severely sprained, with the ribs that it absorbed the impact from at least bruised. Possibly, both are fractured. The bruises, however, are still negligible and not worth concern.

Further, I suspect I have found my communicator, as some of the pain in my rib area is originating from metal shards that I cannot identify as belonging to the shuttle craft. None of the shards appear too deep, so I decide it is something I can deal with on my own latter, with my personal dermal regenerator. They are understandably busy.

As sickbay is busy, I seat myself on a bio-bed to wait. I do not lay down; for the first two hours after a concussion a person is to be waked every quarter hour, and the two hours after that every hour. I have currently had a concussion for—as I do not know exactly, I do know I have one. I believe it has been less than an hour. It only feels like it has been forever.

I am tired.

* * *

"Ya know, this ain't a daycare." He mumbles a few more words, which I am not sure if I am meant to hear or not "Even if it sure seems like one all the damn time."

I don't open my eyes as the light playing on my eyelids is plenty painful enough. "Isn't, Doctor." I correct, no meaning behind it at all.

I feel a huff on my cheek and the light moves to my other eyelid. "Concussion?" It is said at a reasonable volume into my ear. Although the light is quickly becoming illogical as McCoy has previously determined during my checkups that any eye dilation on my part, the lack of which can be indicative of a brain injury, won't be readily noticeable due to my eye colour. He better just hope that I have not injured that _precious brain o' mine_, as he told me to. I suspect that there should be feelings of bitterness imbued in those thoughts, but my body must be focused on healing itself. For the time being, I have lost the innate ability to reorganize my neural pathways in such a way as to feel emotion. I absently note that I must be the only Vulcan concerned that (with how often I am beginning to believe I will be injured within these next five years) chronic injuries may be able to have the same effect on me as chronic meditation. Too little emotion, however, does not panic me now. Nor do I gain any amusement from knowing that I can discern exactly why it does not. It is a perfectly logical state to be in.

"As you're prone to state, you are a Doctor. As such should you not be informing me of my condition?" I can only have good faith that the light has a medical reason. The light is removed, and now I can focus enough to recall that sensitivity to light would be a medical concern.

There's scrapping—most probably a chair—on the floor for a moment.

"Name?"

"Spock."

There's a tapping on the floor. "_Full_ name?"

"That is unnecessary."

"Right." The tapping increases, then stops. "What's the date?"

"April 11th, 2258."

"Ya know where you are?"

"I am in the sickbay aboard the Enterprise."

"Do you recall what happened."

I consider saying no. "Yes." It is simple enough to say so when thinking about it is this easy. McCoy needs to know if I have memory loss, so answering truthfully is only logical.

McCoy asks, much too sweetly, "And how do you feel?"

"As though I have seen one too many Rorschach panels." **** **Again, a true answer is much too easy to reply with.

"Oh, and why's that. Please do tell." Still said in that same, fake sweet voice. That he has decided to tease me probably indicates that he thinks me to not have anything worse than the possible concussion he has been trying to determine. That is a positive state of affairs.

I open my eyes and look directly into his, "You may read the mission report when it is available." I close them again. If I so happen to see Rorschach inkblots differently in the future, at least I have a good reason. I have though, never seen them as anything other than what they are, and I doubt that at this moment that will change. "How is Officer Davison?" And the image that brings up of her injury, bone and panelling sticking out of her shoulder, is—nothing. I could also have post traumatic shock disorder, I acknowledge internally, no more concerned than I was a moment ago. If anything, I at least have the proper means to deal _quickly_ with PTSD.

"Had to get her into surgery. She'll be just fine, after some bed-rest." It is said with a gruff note to it. After a few moments of silence there's scrapping as the chair is moved again. I wonder how long I have been asleep if Davison has already had surgery. "I'll have Christine check you out in a bit. I have to go deal with Darnell's body." The last sentence holds the same bitter note that the captains voice did over the communicator.

It's quite possible everyone aboard this ship requires bed-rest. In my case, that would mean time enough to heal. At least Doctor McCoy's argument with me seems to have alleviated some of his tension. I physically relax and drift off again. It is a simple practiced shutdown that forces sleep.

* * *

"Mr. Spock?"

I open my eyes in an even motion, as though I hadn't been asleep, "Nurse Chapel."

She smiles at me, "Would you like to go get prepared in one of the private rooms?"

"Indeed, thank you." I sit up, dislodging a colourful blue and yellow blanket which I believe belongs to the quilt subset, thus noticing it. While studying it I ask Nurse Chapel "Are you responsible for this?"

She shrugs and looks away with a slight blush on her features, "I noticed when you came in. After you fell asleep it just felt like the right thing to do."

I sit up further, taking care not to let the quilt fall, a brief surge of emotions flashing through me that I do not need to suppress before they are gone again. They are still enough to prompt a "Thank you." I begin the process of un-tucking the quilt from around me and folding it.

The blush increases and she points to one of the private rooms, "I'll be with you in five." I drape the folded quilt overtop the metal-frame of the headboard, waiting until she is out of view before attempting to push myself up. My arm locks on me the first time; I was thinking that it would through the way it felt while I was folding. I try again, foregoing the use of my injured arm for my second attempt, managing to use my core muscles to propel myself upward and forward.

I continue with my forward momentum, rotating enough that I can move my feet onto the hard floor and rise fully from the soft bed that had been both a refuge and a trap. These injuries, at least, are not overly restrictive to my movement and I make it into the room with little effort. It is clinically clean, with a bed identical to my former one pressed up against the wall opposite the door. The lack of a quilt is counterbalanced by a non-Starfleet issued chair is sitting close to the right side of the bed; it is rather the oddity as I know that it was not here before, and that Doctor Puri would not have used his limited time to install a wooden chair with both a cushioned seat and back.

The room could be considered rather spacious. I had thought so when I had first toured the Enterprise at Captain Pike's behest, noting how illogical it is to dedicate the much needed space to a single patient. However I learned, during my first classified mission, that a considerable amount of square-feet in a room such as this can be used for specialized equipment.

The next thing that I note is that the cupboard and storage area, to the side of the room on my left, has a sink installed. It is a relief to wash the blood and the grime which I can reach off of me. The texture felt quiet odd, physically, on my skin. The water however is unbearably pink for some minutes, with too bright green swirls interspaced throughout.

* * *

***** Italicized dialogue from Star Trek (2009)

**** **Can be considered a reference to the comic book Watchmen. However, I only realized such myself after I used the word panel. I came to use Rorschach after getting Gestalt stuck in my head. As I've seen Watchmen (the movie) and viewed the panel this would be reference to, as well as studied Gestalt psychology, I suppose you can take it however you want.


	16. Tensor I

Tensor I Friday, April 13th, 2258

"Let's confirm that you do have a concussion." Nurse Chapel gestures for me to sit on the inactive biobed. I do so and she continues, "You know your name, the date and where you are?"

"Indeed." I reply.

She nods, taking me at my word. It is ... fascinating.

"Do you have any other injuries?"

As it seems she is not otherwise needed I answer. "I have two electrical burns and, I suspect, a fracture of my distal radius." As I enumerate my injuries she moves to put on gloves, and the expression on her face becomes more drawn, having been previously open.

When she finishes putting them on and moves to prepare the medical equipment, I speak again. "May I make an enquiry before you begin treatment?"

She pauses in her preparations to given me her full attention while talking, "Of course."

"You are obliged to inform the C.M.O. of any medically relevant concerns you become aware of. Is this correct?" I know the answer, and still the urge to stall was unavoidable.

"Yes, why?" He eyebrows are drawing inwards and down, her lips mimicking the motion.

I ignore the question. "Is it within your prerogative to determine what is medically relevant?"

"Yes, it is." A silent why seems to be attached this time?

I nod slightly, reluctantly. If my emotions are recovering this quickly, as least some of my previous state must have been caused by PTSD; possibly still the shock stage of it, "You may begin treatment when you wish."

She smiles again, "Great, we'll start with that suspected fracture." She comes to stand next to me. "I'll need to palpitate it."

I raise an eyebrow at that as I fold up my sleeve, "I assumed that is what the gloves are for."

"Oh." Not a reply to my words but rather a shocked reaction to what she is seeing. Her hand moves over the raised white flesh seemingly of its own violition. I turn my arm slightly so its inside is no longer within her view. She draws in a deep breath, no longer entranced. "We'll discuss this after I patch you up."

* * *

She puts the dermal regenerator down, having just finished healing the incision made to properly set and heal the bone. "Good as new."

"Then I believe we have a matter to discus." My heart beats too fast for a moment, before I moderate its beating. I hope I have no reason to get into a habit of using such drastic measures.

She sits in the visitors' seat, a distressed look suddenly overtaking her as her entire face seems to pinch together, "It's not in your medical history?"

"No, it is not." I nearly state that I wish for it to remain that way, but I have no intent to undermine whatever her decision is.

"You never mentioned it?" She's shaking her head slightly back and forth, not making eye contact with me.

"That is correct." I am quickly losing any conviction that her decision will be in my favor.

"Why not?"

Although I have no desire to influence her decision, even if I do not like it, I will be honest. "My own view is that it is not relevant."

She's still nodding her head back and forth, more so now. "I'm going to need some time to think."

"That is logical." I rise from the bed, "Thank you for tending to my injuries."

She rises too, "Come by in a week so I can check there's no complications with anything." She pauses and says in a quieter voice, "I'll let you know what I decide then."

I incline my head slightly to her before I leave.

* * *

Before sinking into my meditations (and the blue is peaceful on days when there is too much red) I look down at my covered arms. I once again have a blue tunic on.

The blood is gone, the scars are not.

* * *

"History is the sum total of the things that could have been avoided." Adenauer


	17. Tension III

Tension III Friday, April 13th, 2258

I pause in front of my quarters once I exit them. I wish to go back in, to write the mission report, and then to rest. Nonetheless I continue to the captain's quarters as procedure dictates I debrief him before anything else. I have already used excuses to put this off, by going to sickbay and then meditating my emotions back into existence.

"Mr. Spock." He runs a hand over his face, doesn't bother with rearranging the hair that is disorganized through that gesture having been done multiple times today already, and motions for me to come in. "How," he swallows, swallows again once the first one does not clear his throat, "how'd this happen?" His hands fumble nervously with the hem of his shirt, until he notices my gaze, thus noticing what he is doing, and stops mid motion.

"An undetectable error that occurs in approximately 1.33% of shuttlecrafts locked our controls." I pause. I do not continue.

He slumps onto his couch, then lifts his hand to yet again to try smoothing the new lines that are forming off of his face, but aborts the motion midway the same way he did with his fidgeting, "It was unavoidable then. Not anyone's fault."

"That is correct, Captain." I answer, as he sounded unsure of his previous words. As a human, his psych needs him to believe them to function properly.

"Approximately?" He smiles at me and it seems to hold the bitter note his voice did over the communicators. The lack of crinkles around his eyes serves to further indicate that his smile is insincere. It looks more like he is barring his teeth at me, than that he is smiling.

I inhale.

He relaxes into his beige couch, muscles losing some of their tension. The couch, it is for two people; I think the correct term is a loveseat. It is in the center of the living area, facing the doorway. It feels open.

I exhale.

Realizing that I am digressing, if only internally, I continue, "Do you have any further questions?"

"What about Officer Bensen?" His voice is somewhat steadier.

"His remains are not retrievable." I block the image trying to force its way into my memory.

Kirk pauses. "Do I want to know?"

"Do you want to know what?" I keep my face entirely blank. If he only reads it in my report, it may seem less real to him, hence be less able to affect him. What is written down does not need to be taken as a real experience—often is not taken as one by most humans. But what I tell him now needs to be taken as reality. My face remains perfectly blank, as it needs to.

He stands as he speaks. "Never mind Mister Spock. I trust your report will be more detailed." It's a noticeable switch from the worn youth to the captain before me, focused and at attention with his back straight. He still has some ways to go, but even I can see the foundation for a great Captain beneath the bravado that he no doubt feels he must wear.

"It will be." I assure.

He gives a sharp nod, a motion down and then back to its normal position with no loss of time used for extra movements. "Dismissed, Commander."

* * *

In my quarters I don't become any less tense.

_I lied. _

I imagine how the debriefing should have gone.

_"How'd this happen?"_

_"An undetectable error that occurs in approximately 1.33% of shuttlecrafts locked our controls. Combined with an insufficiently tuned system, manual piloting was reduced to flying without directional and thus location input."_

_"And was it avoidable?"_

_"Yes, routine maintenance would have discovered the second issue and the shuttle could have been correctly piloted."_

And there it would have descended into the question of who was at fault. I suspect the bitter note I have already started to detect in both the captain and McCoy is some amount of blame directed at me, as there is no one else to direct it towards; Lieutenant Alden has yet to regain consciousness, and Miss. Davison was significantly injured, so to blame either of them would be highly callous by human standards—where-as my cultures self proclaimed lack of emotion makes me suitable for receiving blame.

I do hope that Alden and Davison recover well.

Further, logically nobody was to blame. Engineering has been forced to increase time between maintenances to deal with other issues, as we were majorly injured during the Narada crisis. The captain would have been derelict to order them to the shuttle bay; the shuttles are the only things new on the ship. And I could not have slowed the shuttle.

I move away from the entrance. Move to my computer console. Start my report.

I do not leave out delegating the safety procedures to the lowest ranking security officer. I do not leave out that Darnell's death was wholly avoidable, wholly his fault. _Except maybe Bensen would have better emphasised safety procedures, and I didn't let him do his job. _I do not leave out Bensen's cause of death. I do not leave out moving injured personnel without full knowledge of their injuries, or getting close to livewires to do so—both of which violate safety procedures.

I consider, briefly, intercepting the reports that need to be filled for the death of a crew member and doing them instead of the captain. However, it would be best if the captain did so. He literally cannot describe it in more detail than is necessary. I can, however, continue intercepting a portion of his routine workload.

I finish my report. Move away from the console. Move to in front of the floor to ceiling window panel in my sleeping area.

I left out my injuries. I left out the second defect, the one that proved fatal. I left out that it was avoidable.

I turn off the communicator I am wearing.

I left out requisitioning a new one. Office Bensen's is no different than mine was.

I pause for a moment before leaning over to reach the nightstand and the medical kit contained within. I realize I will need a pair of tweezers to remove my communicator from my side, and that aside the washroom would be a more ideal location for this procedure. The blood will not waste a towel if I simply occupy the shower while I pick the pieces out.

It takes time, but once I am done I decide to review all piloting procedures. I could not have slowed the shuttle, but I was piloting it. I ignore the meditation matt, rolled and stuffed in a corner. Today blue seems immensely oppressive—crushing.

* * *

I wake in the middle of the night, shortly after regulating my hormones to allow for sleep; it would appear my first nightmare aboard the Enterprise was not to be my last. And now, now would be a suitable time to be sick.

* * *

"I apologize for lying to you. I promise I won't deceive you except in matters of this sort." Agnew


	18. Invitations I

Invitations I Saturday, April 14th, 2258

"Where's the goddamn injury?" An irate doctor ground out as he marches straight into my room, on the proverbial war-path.

I blink, and then I continue with my morning tea. It is too sweet.

McCoy leans onto the kitchenette island, on the side directly across from me, and I can see exactly how tense he is by the manner in which his arms hold him up. No doubt his emotions have worked him into a fight or flight mindset, and it is clear to see which he has chosen, "And it better not be serious, ya stubborn git."

I finish my tea (I plan to sample mixed berry tomorrow) and take my time with it, to allow the doctor to try evening out his breathing. Then I decide to acknowledge the uninvited guest in my private quarters. "Doctor McCoy, I have no idea to what you are referring." I say it once it seems he has relaxed some.

"Does the word _bullshit_ mean anything to you?" He leans closer, nearly shouting into my face. He is quick to become very **not** relaxed. Perhaps his emotions operate in pure dichotomy? It is interesting to consider, even as he continues talking. "I read the report. There were livewires. Plus the bruising on Lieutenant Alden; I can add, Spock." Further, if they do operate in a strict dichotomy—

—I blink as my immediate thoughts are cut off by one of those running parallel to them; this is the first time McCoy has called me by my given name since our assignment to the _Enterprise_ became permanent. "You are referring to the electrical burn I received in securing Lieutenant Alden?" I decide to not comment on his concept of addition, and I finally give him my full attention. I admonish myself (internally; it would not do well to give the doctor any ammunition) for the fact that I delegated the words he was saying to a subservient line of conscious thought.

"Ah-ha!" He lunges forward and grabs my arm, his grip nearly bruising.

Before he can roll up my sleeve, as is his clear intend conveyed by his body language, I speak, stressing each syllable of the word "Doctor," that escapes my lips as I remove his hand, "Nurse Chapel tended my injuries adequately." He speaks in body language more so then most humans I have seen (a notable exception being that the entire bridge crew are the same). He also speaks **louder **than most of them (with no exception). It is fascinating. "If that is all?" I pause, then decide that examining his past body language in a line of thought divergent from our conversation here and now, does technically mean that I am completely focused on him. And to add a degree of finality to my last words I say, "Thank you." In the same tone I used for his title.

"_Injuries_." Fascinating, that he can get even redder. My second line of thought notes the number seven; that I have seen the doctor respond to me with seven different shades of red. I am still paying attention to the doctor's words, and have never stopped paying attention. It is a benefit of being part Vulcan, to be able to process multiple thoughts at the same time. I also idly wonder that if I can reduce him to one word sentences this easily, what it would take to leave him speechless. And whether I could get a new shade of red at the same time. I let both these ideas lay—for now. He is talking, "Yeah, I suppose—" and I realize that my parallel thought process _is_ more distracting than it usually is. "—people like you an' Jim jus' need to go around all unlucky, proving all the damn concerns an' worries true." He adds, "_All_ the time." As if it somehow changes the meaning of his words.

"Nonetheless, they have been tended to." I say calmly before I turn and put my cup in the sink. I start washing it. "If_ that_ is all?" I repeat. He mumbles something I cannot discern. I turn back towards him."Beg your pardon?" I had thought that politely dismissing him twice would be enough to allow me to return to my morning routine.

"That's exactly what I'm doing," McCoy mumbles once more, "my questions in sickbay were inappropriate. Sorry." He forces out, face pinched as though having tasted something bitter. I am not sure that a normal human would have heard him.

"Fascinating." Is out before I think it through, which is fascinating in and of its self. Now I know that I had too many thoughts running at the same, if McCoy managed to surprise me. Although, I did not think McCoy capable of apologies, considering that he has never once appeared contrite over referring to me with derogatory remarks. Remarks from across a _very_ varied spectrum.

"Yeah, well," and he stands straight, "some of us know how to apologize when we drop the ball." He has his feet planted shoulder width apart and arms crossed over his chest. There, that is more his norm, to insult me while appearing confrontational.

"Doctor McCoy?" I begin, to assure that I have his full attention, although he is glaring daggers at me.

"Yeah?" He looks at me with obvious suspicion as he leans on one leg more and then the other, his arms loosening slightly. I am not sure what he is expecting, exactly.

"You are aware that you used your medical override without due cause." I move to my computer console and pull up the necessary forms without delay, "As such I am filing a misconduct report against you." I state simply as I take my seat. Internally, I have brought up a new thought process for assessing how long it will take to manufacture and implant a subroutine for the locking mechanism of my door that will limit the use of his medical override to medical emergencies _only_. Immediately, I realize that the most complicated aspect will be ensuring that he does indeed have access in any dire situation.

At my first sentence he fully crosses his arms over his chest for the second time since entering my room, possibly holding them stiffer than even the first time. By the time I finish speaking he is stuttering out, "You _can't_ do that." His accent is markedly affecting the cadence of his words, to a degree two standard deviations from the norm which it usually does. It is not unwelcome, and it tugs the shades he can turn and the motions he uses to the forefront of my mind.

"I believe I have enough time to do so." I say as I am filling out the report. It should not take long. Nor should it take long to bypass the security systems to actually install the program once I successfully make it. It will be a beneficial opportunity to completely familiarize myself with the security systems attached to the crews' personal quarters, and ensure that I know what means an opponent may use to work their way around them.

McCoy places his hands on his hips, tilts his weight more so to the left so he is leaning slightly to one side. It suits him. "Not what I meant." Tacked on at the end is an, it seems, obligatory, "Ya goddamn green-blooded pointy-eared portable computer." Even as he is saying it though, he is settling himself across my couch with an overdramatic sigh.

In a voice purposely as blank as I can make it I say, "Make yourself at home."

* * *

"How poor are they that have not patience!  
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" Othello 2.3.274-75.


	19. Invitations II

**A/N** Let's consider** The Monetary System of Federation Planets** as such (or supposed to be transitioning towards such): Everything is provided for, to a set standard of living, by the government of Federation planets. You can improve the amount you get by having certain jobs, to a degree. And private businesses, still a sizable sector, are what use credits. You can get credits from the government through forgoing something you'd otherwise get, or trading in something you have. You can earn credits in the private sector. The government does accept credits. Liken it to communism, traditional Marxist, with incentives much likes China used when there spin-off went downhill for them.

* * *

"The art of listening needs its highest development in listening to oneself; our most important task is to develop an ear that can really hear what we're saying." Harris

* * *

Invitations II Saturday, April 14th, 2258

"Are you done yet?" McCoy asks (for the nth time) from my sofa, which is out of view and facing a blank wall. There_ is_ a bookshelf adjacent to it, and from that I can tell he has occupied himself with reading "Vulcan Emotionalism: Fear and Cheating Death" which is on Vulcan synaptic displacement. The book was written by a human who has dedicated a series to proving that Vulcan's do have emotions. It was only marginally better received than his "Orion's And Modesty" collection, although I can see why _McCoy_ has taken to it.

"Yes." I say as I send in the misconduct report. I had simply not answered him before.

"Good." McCoy rises from the sofa and stretches, back arching as his hands met above his head. "Now let's go get some food."

"If your reason for waiting was for me to accompany you, I have had breakfast already." I intone.

McCoy finishes stretching and I feel slightly discouraged. "Ya mean that tea? You know, I _can_ officially change your diet." It appears I was right to be discouraged. He leans down and picks up the book I had hypothesized he was reading, and my discouragement morphs into something else.

"There is no need to change my diet, Doctor. And earning yourself two misconduct reports over misuse of medical privileges in one day is not advisable." I rise to escort McCoy to the door.

"Fine. Whatever." He rolls his eyes. As we reach the door, "Where is this death trap off to anyway?"

"We are delivering supplies to Tarsus IV."

McCoy has his face scrunched in consideration, even as the door to the corridor remains open. After a lengthy pause, "You should take Jim up on a chess offer."

I raise my brow at the non-sequitur.

He elucidates. "Ta talk. I don't think he likes Tarsus, I've heard him mention it somewhat once or twice before, but only after a few drinks."

"And I should discuss this with him why?" A person's private life is their own concern.

"Because, for some reason he likes _you_." McCoy says, transparent in his disbelief, head nodding in a slow lateral motion.

I tilt my head slightly, idly considering how Kirk can like both McCoy and I with how disparate our personalities are, "And that means I should talk to him, why?"

McCoy makes a rather disconcerting snorting sound and finally steps into the corridor. "Really can't tell what he's thinking sometimes."

"Indeed." I raise an eyebrow, and as I step out of sensor range of the door I move my eyes to my book in McCoy's hand and inform him to, "Please return that when you are done."

I let the door fall shut on McCoy's words. Oddly, I am slightly disappointed that they also fall shut on the person. Perhaps the prospect of an actual breakfast was more appealing than I had previously considered.

* * *

"_Hey, Say." David says as I sit across from him in the mutually agreed upon eating establishment, a location neutral to the both of us. I have not seen him since requesting his aid in acquiring immediate transport to Earth after my failed attempt gain entrance to the Vulcan Science Academy. That was nearly two months ago._

_Stowing away on the starship that had escorted their diplomatic party was an—enlightening experience. _

"_Mr. Rabin." I greet calmly, ignoring the nickname he has seen fit to grace me with, which is an incorrect shorthand of my family name. On Vulcan, that he has done so would be taken as a grave offense. I am not on Vulcan anymore. I came to learn that rather quickly._

"_Mr. Rabin, Mr. Rabin." He rolls it off his tongue a few times, each time changing the emphasize, completely ignoring me. He has his arms crossed behind his head and is leaning back in perfect relaxation._

"_Mr. Rabin." I say firmly, to get his apparently short attention span refocused._

_He looks at me, expression sharp, "My dad was Mr. Rabin. He's dead. It's David." He loses his intensity, "Besides, Mr. Rabin," he again says it in a new manner, "I just can't make it sound right."_

"_Very well, David, may you make this quick."_

_David laughs lightly, "Say, slow down there." I twitch at the word play, "Sit down," I do, "our meals should be here any minute." Shortly after he finishes speaking (a time period not yet long enough for an awkward silence to develop between us) a server appears and places a salad in front of each of us, smiling politely before leaving. He finally uncrosses his arms, going directly for his fork._

_I pull out my credit chip, "May I inquire as to the cost of my meal?"_

_David, around a mouthful of food, answers, "You can ask, doesn't mean I'll tell you."_

_I set my chip down on the table, in easy reach of him should he desire to reimburse himself, "Very well." I start on my salad._

"_So, what are you doing for money anyway? Don't remember you having a credit chip before." He pauses, tilts his head to the side in an exaggerated degree in apparent consideration, "Actually, I distinctly remember you coming here with absolutely nothing."_

_That had made it easier to stay on the Starship, not to mention that I was rushed._

"_I have found suitable employment." I say tensely._

"_Great," his smile also is over exaggerated, "What 'bout suitable shelter?"_

_I tense, but possibly, if I amuse this human he will leave me alone after this. "I have not."_

"_Great," at that I internally question this human's sanity, "you can come live with me and Mom." This human is utterly insane._

"_You cannot be serious." I put my fork down and pocket my credit chip, ready to leave._

_David apparently decides that now is a good time to rise from the booth and stretch. We he finishes, he sits down next to me, physically blocking my escape. "Oh, I mean it. This Starfleet term starts in less than a month, and I need somebody to teach me hydrostatics, maybe all of fluid mechanics."_

_I pause, finally considering his offer. "You wish to trade shelter for knowledge?"_

"_Yep, and you'd get home cooked meals too. Captain Nechama Rabin is very interested in meeting the student she's sponsored for Starfleet."_

_I think through how such an arrangement would work. I would, of course, still need to rent rooms for when I am engaged in business related to my profession, as I suspect David would not approve of it. But otherwise, it would be a beneficial arrangement. And, I am very lucky to have a Captain sponsoring me who has never met me; at the least it would be polite to introduce myself to her._

"_I will take you up on your offer."_

_David's smile is not over exaggerated this time, nonetheless it is exuberant. _

_He swings his right arm around my shoulders, locking us together._


	20. Solutions II

"There but for the grace of God go I." Unknown

* * *

Solutions II Sunday, April 15th, 2258

I pause at my computer console before I leave. I ... had no intention to do so. But the mere fact that I have is enough to convince me, and I pull up my schedule to take myself off of gamma shift for the first time, on the coming Friday.

* * *

Friday, April 20th, 2258

"Mr. Spock," Kirk joins me in the turbolift as he does every Friday. "Would you like to have a game of chess?" He asks, and I take a moment to be amused by the fact that he has never asked the same way twice. It is as if he thinks changing the wording will change my answer.

"I am amenable to such."

The lift continues on in utter silence and I glance over at Kirk without moving my head. He looks, for lack of a better word, shocked. His eyes have widened, and he has gone completely slack. Even his mouth is hanging open. Suddenly, his teeth clink shut and form a full grin. "Awesome!" He shouts, leaving a ringing in my ears, " You can even be white."

I lift an eyebrow, "Do you mean to insult my capabilities?"

"Nope," the turbolift opens to deck five, "I'm just trying to be a good host." He rushes out of the turbolift.

I tense momentarily, and then relax near instantaneously. Although I would prefer a recreational room as the backdrop to our game, the captain's quarters will be more conductive to a conversation, if McCoy's assessment of the privacy Jim regards this matter with is correct.

I follow him, albeit at a—much—slower pace.

* * *

"Captain," I pick up a piece, my remaining (black) bishop, "what are your views on our current assignment?" I set the piece down as is necessary for my plan.

He smiles without looking up from the board. "It's Jim." And moves his piece in a way contrary to my expectations. "And I don't get why Starfleet thinks we're a delivery service." He says, but it is not as harsh as I would expect it to be.

I use my pawn, the only one that has not yet moved, to execute an en passant. I catch the surprised look on kirks face even as I am focused on the board, see his eyes quickly moving from one piece to another as he replans his tactics. I had not used an en passant before now, leaving it to the last chance. "They are merely using what resources they have." I say, well aware of the fact that Starfleet has lost a good part of their fleet. As well as great officers.

"Right." Jim looks for a long while at the board before he makes a move, "I suppose if I have to deliver anywhere, I'm glad it's Tarsus."

I have the urge to castle my king, make sure it is defended. "Why Tarsus IV specifically?" I take my hand off the castle, move the knight on the other side of the board. After a number of turns without a reply of any sort, I begin to believe McCoy was wrong in saying I should attempt this conversation. Despite the faith others have in my ability to be discreet, I am not the one people chose to confide to.

I pause on my next turn, realizing what is playing out on the board. He is attempting to promote a pawn. And yet, my best course of action is to ignore it in favor of breaking his defense.

"My step dad didn't want us around; always tried sending us away." Jim is staring intently at the board. I take note of his use of the word us. He moves the pawn. "He was going to send us to Tarsus when I was thirteen." I do the calculations as I move my queen. Jim picks up the castle. "But Sam ran away the same day he told us to leave. Guess he took it to heart." He sets his piece down, making the pawn impossible to get at before it crosses the board and finally he looks up at me, flashing a smile to accompany his next words. "So I got upset, drove a car off a cliff and got myself arrested. It's kind of hard to catch a shuttle from a holding cell." I wonder how acquainted I am going to become with that bitter smile and move my piece without hesitation at an opening. "So I guess," Jim switches the pawn into a knight, "I know how easily it could have been me in that hellhole." He finishes by bringing it back to my original question, "I suppose that makes me glad to help out there, even if it is just a delivery." Jim leans back into his seat, surveys the board and allows a certain smugness into his voice, "Check."

His posture relaxes, becoming less intent, as it was throughout our match

I take in the entirety of the board, "That is an ingenious placement of your pieces." I compliment him, and accompany my words with a slight bow of my head. I would never have thought to do what he did.

Jim smiles, "Wish you were white now?" He is sounding rather assured of his impending victory.

I move my bishop. "Checkmate." While his game was innovative, he used his strategy regardless of my moves.

Jim tips his king without looking down at it, "You're a great conversationalist." He does not appear upset over the unexpected loss.

I suspect sarcasm. "Another game Jim?"

"Finally!" Jim slams his palms onto the table, knocking the setup over.

I raise an eyebrow, even as a piece rolls against my foot.

"Umm, sorry 'bout that." Kirk scratches the back of his head, "First time you've called me Jim without a prompt." He shrugs half-heartedly with both his shoulders.

Ah. "Another game, Captain?" I keep my face straight, with somewhat more effort than usual.

Kirk places his head into his hands with a groan.

* * *

A while into our fourth game, rather late into the night as our third game lasted over two hours, I speak. "I ran away from home." Into the ensuing silence I continue, "Multiple times."

I explain to him that, as a small child, I thought that Vulcan's wilderness something to be further examined. I explain the logical reasons.

What I do not say is that quite simply, it was ethereal, and in turn freeing.

* * *

When I meditate tonight, instead of sleeping, the blue is not annoying. I merely feel a sense of loss that it is not—can not be—the red sands of Vulcan.


	21. Solutions III

"Agreeing to disagree is a way of giving up—an admission that neither one of us has the skills, courage, or tenacity to work it out!" Frindt

* * *

Solutions III Saturday, April 21th, 2258

"So, what are we looking at?" An unexpected voice asks from directly behind me. I did not hear him approaching due to my focus on the slide beneath the microscope.

I do not stop in my work as I speak, "_We_ are not looking at anything. Doctor McCoy, you are off duty. What is your purpose here?"

I hear an indignant snort from right over my shoulder, as McCoy apparently has decided to lean over me to get a better view of the station I am working at. "What am I doing in the biochemistry lab, are you serious? Doctor plus biochemistry. They kinda go hand in hand."

Once more I do not comment on McCoy's concept of addition, this time because I am momentarily distracted by the term hand in hand. However, I ignore what specifically has distracted me about McCoy saying it, as I know he does not mean it in the same context that I instinctively relate it to. It was merely the words, and only those, that caught my attention. Instead, I consider the good fortune that McCoy has appeared at this exact time, as I can use his expertise.

I step back from the microscope, "Doctor, may you please inform me what you make of chromosomes twelve, thirteen, and fifteen?"

He looks extremely irritated but bites out a, "Yeah, sure." And then leans over the device I previously vacated. Immediately, he pulls away from it, "A plant cell, really?" He seems affronted at the simplicity of it.

I stand stiff. The quicker he can confirm my findings, the quicker a solution can be found. "Yes." I say, hoping it does not convey the tension I am undergoing. A quick solution is paramount.

He leans back down, "I'm looking at a rice cell. So what?" He moves to stand straight again.

"Doctor," I say, this time knowing that my tone is sharper than intended, and I moderate it before I continue, "have the chromosomes I mention received alterations in any way."

Not even fully finished standing, he leans back down again with an exaggerated sigh accompanying the action. A few minutes later, he rises again. "Nope, there's no alterations whatsoever. Can I go now?" He glares at me, as belligerent as his tone was, clearly believing that I have just put him through a pointless exercise.

"In your professional opinion, what conditions will the plant need to survive?" I say in monotone, ignoring his question.

"Water, and lots of it. A humid environment, one that rains a lot. Nitrogen rich soil. And it will need lots of care." He lists off, increasingly annoyed, "It's just normal goddamn rice, what do you want me to say?"

"I merely require your opinion as to if it can survive on Tarsus IV." I say placidly.

Slowly, understanding dawns on McCoy's face, "Fuck." Tarsus IV, while having large bodies of water, does not produce rain as often as most planets. It is not overly dry, nor overly humid. The soil, while not exceeding the 30:1 carbon to nitrogen ratio that would put usually nitrogen in short supply, lacks any major bacteria that carries out nitrification. Lastly, Tarsus IV most assuredly needs a crop that requires minimum care. "Doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell" McCoy says, and then continues, "Is the admiralty really this stupid?"

I willingly ignore his last remark, and gesture to some papers I had previously arranged on the table, "Will you officially confirm my findings, Doctor?"

He grabs the pen off the top of the pile, looks at the first form for a second and signs where required without bothering to read past the opening sentence. It is both annoying, while holding some of the same fascination that Nurse Chapel's confidence in my self diagnosis contained. Within the next ten minutes, he has filled in every area where his opinion and signatures are required. "What next." He says, pent up energy making him bounce up and down on his feet.

"I will contact the admiralty, requesting a delay in our shipment schedule. You will contact Captain Kirk and inform him of the situation, and then begin work on the necessary modifications for the oryza sativa. I will join you when I am available." As I am finishing saying it, I turn on my heel to go.

"Wait, wait," McCoy calls out, and I turn back to him. "Aren't we reaching Tarsus in_ just_ a few hours?"

"Yes," I answer curtly and turn to leave once more, hearing McCoy mutter curses under his breath even as he commandeers the biochemistry lab.

* * *

"Admiral Komack, it is highly illogical." I complain, just as the captain enters the conference room. I switch back to the topic I am suppose to be here for. "The science division has already begun the appropriate procedures. It should take us no more than two days."

"Admiral Komack," Captain Kirk salutes the screen politely, no sign of the slightly pinched expression that was on his face when he heard my words upon entering, and I resist the urge to address the matter with the captain that a salute _should not_ appear so casual. "You're relieved, Commander Spock." Kirk says to me. His tone is neutral, but I suspect that if it were not I would not enjoy what it was.

I nod once in affirmation, and depart to aid McCoy.

* * *

I reflect, briefly, that I should not be as surprised as I am that he sincerely has commandeered the bio-chem lab. My science staff are following his orders, putting their own experiments on hold. Even the medical personnel are working in the science labs. It is only logical, as this is currently the only time sensitive task we have. I should not be surprised at all.

I approach McCoy and gather a part of his attention, much to his apparent annoyance. He is working at a breakneck pace, which I note increased by 14% since my entrance into his line of vision. Odd, that he would increase his pace without an inversely proportional decrease to his time limit. "How may I be of aid?" He stops partially ignoring me while I talk to him, and appears to lose much of his agitation; he is now at his norm. I wonder what caused such a change, and if it is the same thing that is causing him to look at me as though I have grown an extra head.

He hands me the note for what he is working on without any explanation, deciding to go shout at one of my colleges about _what the hell he is doing with that, for the love of all that is holy_. My mouth thins momentarily before I focus completely on the task at hand. I pause in my own thoughts. Then refocus completely on just _the task_. If this is how McCoy has deemed that I can be of aid then it is what I shall do for now.

* * *

Doctor McCoy and I are the only people working in this quadrant of the science lab, and I have to admire his partitioning off of an area for each separate issue. As I joined the task late, I did not see fit to take command from him. The other sections are dealing with chromosomes twelve, thirteen, and fifteen. McCoy and I are dealing with how to implement the genetic changes to the multiple, and rather large, containers of oryza sativa.

* * *

After a too long day (and I have sorely underestimated the science division as we have already accomplished our task fully) we have managed to use targeted radiation to change the cell structure of the shipment. It is not ideal, but it is sufficient. As long as the forced mutations occurred in the majority of the oryza sativa, and they do not degenerate in the long run, Tarsus IV will soon have a stable food supply.

That is, assuming that we did not commit any mistake.

"How can you not think that universal homogeneity is a bad thing?" McCoy demands of me. I cannot recall what specifically I said that has set him off on this tangent. I do recall that we have now argued the point over more than once.

"With the practical results you have witnessed just today, the fact that we are able to aid another planet, you contest the obvious benefits?" We board the turbolift and I input the command for deck five.

"I don't contest the benefits," he repeats my words with a slight intonation that generally indicates mocking, but doesn't pause any in his argument, "I'm just saying that they don't make up for the obvious negatives."

"Elucidate." I reply. And he does just that.

"The cultures that we interfere with, change the progression and chances of, how do we know we don't just cause more problems than we manage ta fix?" Doctor McCoy replies as he exits the turbolift with me.

As we walk down the corridors I continue with our debate. "You are aware of the prime directive?"

He snorts, "Don't get me started on that one. I mean, if we're gonna mess with just one planet and not the other, what are we even doing out here. We could be missing the most amazing things just because exploring space probably isn't the goal of a utopian society. Think about it, why would they want to go anywhere else if what they have is perfect?" A more pronounced snort, "Why would anyone want to go into space? A vacuum environment, the only uninhabitable thing, and we go and decide to explore it."

"While you make some interesting, if flawed, points it would appear that we have ran out of time with which to conduct this conversation." I say as we reach the door to my quarters and come to a standstill.

McCoy looks oddly abashed, but continues on talking in the same tone, "Right, just because I'm winning you want to call it quits." Nonetheless he makes to move away, "G'night Spock."

"Doctor." I halt him, "How are Officer Davison and Lieutenant Alden progressing?" I have made it a point to check on their progress at minimum twice daily. I have only heard how they were doing early this morning.

Doctor McCoy appears even more abashed, and that is the eighth red shade I have had the benefit of watching, "Well, that's actually why I stopped by." He muses to himself, "Was that actually today?" He, thankfully, refocuses his attention on answering me. "Miss Davison is back on light duty." He swallows before continuing, "Lieutenant Alden asked me to see if you could find some time to talk to him before I sign off on anything. Said anytime in the next week would be good." He shrugs once and continues, "It seems to me like he's trying to make some sorta choice, and thinks that your opinion will help him with it."

Ah, he is abashed as he forgot to relay important information to me. I make an internal note not to rely on his ability to share information, as he appears inept at it. I nod, "You may inform him that I will find the time." And, as it is polite I add, "Goodnight, Doctor." Before opening the door to my quarters by stepping within it's sensor range while talking.

I wonder if I can manufacture a permanent (ghost) security state for it, so that it requires more than just my voice to open it. For now I will have to use only the preset commands, which show up in the Enterprise's computer, and which can easily be overridden.

This time it is his voice that halts me. "And Mister, don't you dare think that you've won yet, I'm just letting you off the hook _for now_. And I'm not going to start playing messenger for you, either, I'm just doing it for the lieutenant"

I nod, "I understand. And I look forward to continuing our discussion." Is my only reply before making it fully into my quarters. Hopefully our discussions will counteract his poor communication skills to a suitable degree.


	22. Christening II

"Pride [ ... ] before a fall." _Proverbs 16:18 King James Version_

* * *

Christening II Sunday, April 22rd, 2258

The bar that I am in is somewhere in the same solar system as Tarsus IV. And ... that seems to be the entirety of my knowledge about it. Other than that it is crowded and lit very sparingly, with slow music playing constantly in the background. I know we are here to celebrate our first successful mission. I believe I came down here as someone dressed fittingly in gold _wanted _me to and another with enticing skin the colour of chocolate thought it was best for me. They ... _outnumbered_ me so I came.

I swallow some vulcan port from my glass, not really noticing the taste going down my throat, as the movement of my head has my eyes catching that enticing brown colour I remember. I idly wonder, while sipping more port, if it would taste good. As I focus more on the scene involving the intriguing colour, I note that I am not the only one who has had the idea of tasting it. A man, _Scottish_, is currently savoring it. No, not savoring, as it would no doubt taste sweet. The women—is it Nyota or Uhura?—appears quiet pleased with this. They suit each other, but for some reason I am not entirely pleased at viewing such contentment. I pull my eyes away from the secluded booth that the pair is lounging in; they no doubt want their privacy. The subtle sweetness of the port now seems somewhat sickening, and I drink it quickly to numb the taste.

I switch to drinking vulcan brandy.

As I drink more it starts to feel dizzying, the loudness in my head increasing each time somebody brushes past me, which is too often. Maybe, maybe more brandy will make this feeling subside.

* * *

The ... _drink_ ... did not ..._ fulfill it's purpse_. Deciding I want to do _something_ else, I move to stand. Then I discover that that makes the dizziness increase, so I move to sit back down.

A set of hands catches me before I hit the floor. Where did the seat go? Then a voice mumbles, "Oh for the love of ... fuck, that must be expensive." There is a loud whistle while it manoeuvres me around. I think, from it. There is a good chance it is just my confused sensory input at this moment, but the voice sounds slurred.

"Stop dragging your feet." The voice grounds out, while the arm around my waist gives a hard tug. That is when I notice a sharp breeze, notice that we are outside.

It takes a few more steps after that, but I do realize that means that I am not in the bar anymore. I do know, although I do not know why exactly, that I should stay in the bar. _No_. "Ri." I manage to ground out.

"What was that now?" The voice says. It has clearly heard me, yet the arms, they continue to manipulate me. The hands stay on me.

I tug against the body that is pressing its side into mine. Body, that is what it is, how it has a voice and arms. And a body means a person. I tug again, harder, to get away from this person that I do not know. Ah ... that is why I was to stay in the bar, to be around people I know, people from the Enterprise. I come to this realization as I am on the ground.

"Jesus Christ, Spock, think ya can not do that again?" The person says as they wrap both their hands around my upper arms. I pause, blink. This person knows me? They have me standing again, and proceed to wrap an arm around my waist once more.

Still, I do not know them; do know that, no matter who it is, I do not trust them. _Stop_. "Kroykah." As they do not seem inclined to listen I add "Sanu." _Please. _They _do not_ listen.

I start struggling again, feeling the onset of actual panic. The voice speaks again as they tighten their grip on me. "I can't understand a word your saying, so if ya could do me a favor and keep quiet while I get us back to the Enterprise." He says it more as a barked order than as a question. I calm at the mention of the Enterprise. Then I nod my head in the affirmative at the person's words. "Now ya think or gestures." He says, irritation clearly colouring his voice and registering through the hold he has on me. I flinch away from it, not able to shield to get away from it while in this state, and this time we both fall.

We tangle together, and I can feel slight hints of _aitlu_—desire—from the skin to skin contact with the other man. I stop moving, not sure what to do. It surprises me when the other person disengages from me and grunts out, "Great, gonna be one hell of a mess to clean up in the morning." They lift me and this time I comply with the pulling, still in shock as to why they did not act on their want. When his grip slips on my arm, even with me having stopped fighting, I realize that we have had the fortune of slipping into mud. He is correct; our fall is likely to have caused a substantial amount of disorder that will need to be dealt with at a later time.

* * *

As we both stand still in the transporter room, I take the time to adjust to the light before I can think. "Thank you." I say stiffly, only _after_ taking an internal moment to rehearse it in standard.

"Not too much of a problem," he says as he again reaches to grab my arm, "the whole doctor title kinda necessitates taking care of people."

"Doctor McCoy," I say much too quickly, "I believe I can take care of myself now." I grab his wrist and remove his hand from my arm. I suspect that were I to jerk backwards to dislodge him, as was my initial instinct, I would find myself on the ground yet again.

"Sure ya can." Doctor McCoy rolls his eyes and snatches his arm out of my grip. "I think I'll go after you, if ya don' mind." He nods towards the door. The door ... seems relatively far away, given the circumstances.

"Of course." I continue, the purpose being to stall, "I do not see any logical reason why I would mind." A raised eyebrow accompanies the words.

"Course not." McCoy drawls, arms crossed over his chest and a raised brow of his own.

I inhale. Some of the vertigo has dissipated already, without so many projections clashing against my telepathic barriers. I step forward. The floor moves with me. It takes a few moments but it registers that I am still standing. I step forward again. The colours in the room blur, but I can still see where everything is; in general. I move another step. Everything ends up in its prior position (I think) even after the spinning. I wish that the door had ended up closer.

"Yep, you're perfectly fine Mr. Spock." McCoy says as he walks to within sensor range of the door. "After you." He smiles in an obscenely polite manner.

I am glad that the on-duty personnel, an assistant transporter technician by the name of Mr. Yamata, is stupendously ignoring that he is not the only one currently occupying the room.

I suppress my irritation, then I move to further suppress physical sensation, for a time.

As I pass sinuously by McCoy his smile becomes suddenly forced. I ignore it and continue on my way to my quarters without his aid.

That was shade number nine, a red incurred through mostly alcohol, with some anger stirred in.

* * *

The first to break is my physical control, and I find myself retching into the toilet.

The second to break is my emotional control, _before_ I meditate, as I roll out a constantly annoying blue mat. The blue reminds me of McCoy's uniform tonight. And no, he can't have been attracted to me; there was the alcohol, the physical contact. Other people he may have been interested in before he felt obligated to help me. It may just have been a while for him. I recall his Starfleet files; he was married to a woman, which I most certainly am not. And he has never shown any inclination towards men—and would he not be with Jim if that was his orientation? And, a definitive point is that he did not attempt to interact sexually with me; if the desire I sensed _was_ directed towards me, then he has just reacted in a way entirely foreign to me. Given the number of data points I am working with, his reaction would be near three standard deviations from the normal reaction for somebody who regards me in that way. It is an impossibility.

Now assured of that, I slip into the first level of my meditations and ignore anything related to Doctor Leonard H. McCoy.


	23. Tensor II

"I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in."  
Woolf_  
_

* * *

Tensor II Monday, April 23rd, 2258

As I wake exceedingly early, I am reminded of the fact that there are aspects of my hybrid physiology that I do resent beyond any doubt. While the Vulcan race is spared the dubious benefits of alcohol, I am not. But there is nothing to be done for it except to wait it out.

I lay in bed a few minutes longer before pivoting on my side to reach the container on the metal nightstand, to the left side of my regulation size bed. The plastic container is empty.

It is empty.

It appears that I will be visiting sickbay today. Sickbay. Where I was suppose to visit on _Friday_, to hear Nurse Chapel's verdict. I let myself fall onto my stomach; I will get ready in a few more minutes.

...

Finally, I begin on my morning routine. The tea I picked today is made from some type of alien root vegetable, and is decidedly bitter. Further the churning it has caused in my stomach makes me unable to finish it.

* * *

As I approach the domain of the medical personnel I clench the pill bottle in my hands tighter. It is not visible under the cover of my hands behind my back. I can still turn around.

* * *

As I approach the sickbay once more at the end of the work-day I focus on regulating my adrenal gland enough so I do not allow a fight or flight reaction to take control. Again. I take the necessary step forward.

"Commander Spock." Nurse Chapel springs up from a chair that is facing the door the moment I enter.

Doctor McCoy looks up from his work area, clearly amused by her immediate reaction to my appearance. "Evenin' Spock." He nods towards me, "Chris seemed to think you'd be coming by today, don't know how she figured it out." His amusement is nearly tangible, and while he is not quiet smiling there are clear crinkles around his eyes and a certain ease to the way he is holding himself.

I feel my heart skip a beat. I pause, take a deep breath, and refocus on regulating my heart beat correctly, as it was dangerous for me to allow my control slip to such a degree that I allowed the anomaly. "Figured what out, Doctor?" I ask in a completely disinterested tone. It would not do well for me to appear paranoid. What if he somehow knows?

"Don't worry, I've got the detox hypo just over here." McCoy says as he moves to another counter area, adjacent to the one that he working at. He picks a hypospray, already prepared, up off of the counter top.

I feel a twinge of amusement—indicative of my lacking control—that his preparations for my arrival have actually coincided with it, given that I am here for reasons other than what he has clearly assumed. I notice Nurse Chapel's mouth form a thin line as she recognizes what the hypospray is for, and my amusement dissipates rather soundly in that instant.

McCoy steps to within arm's length of me, and I take a decisive step backwards. He makes an impatient noise, and I cut off any words that may have followed it. "While I appreciated the gesture," I nod towards the hypospray, "I refuse medical treatment for something so trivial." My words have the interesting effect of stoppping him mid-step, and causing him to fall back to his old position.

He snorts, but after a pause moves away and puts the liquid back down, "Trivial my ass, I know I had one hell of a hangover last night." I notice that Chapel now appears to be trying to conceal whatever her reaction to what McCoy has said, "So, why are ya hear?" McCoy asks languidly, having resumed his post of within arm's length of me. I have no logical reason to step backwards now that he does not possess any medical equipment.

"I have an appointment with your nurse. You may return to your prior duties." I intone.

Doctor McCoy does indeed return to his prior duties, but not before saying very clearly, "Like I need your permission to return to doing _my _work." I make a decision to not inform him that, technically, I am his immediate superior and that if I ordered him _not_ to return to work he would be penalized were he to disobey. I do not think that I truly have that type of authority over him, although I was the one to promote him to his current position.

"Yes, you do have an appointment with me; one that you're very late for." Nurse Chapel says sharply. Then, in a much softer tone, "Len, mind if I borrow a private room for just a bit? For_ Commander_ Spock?"

_Len _has already resumed his actives and simply makes a vaguely affirmative noise.

* * *

The door has been closed behind us for longer than the "just a bit" she indicated to McCoy, and still no word has been said. I wonder if I will lose my first permanent posting so soon in due to being declared medically unfit for duty by a nurse.

Nurse Chapel lets out a deep breath. "I have a few questions."

I try to stop myself from regulating my adrenal gland and heart rate, as I have reached my destination. I do not wish to have an influx epinephrine in my system, nor do I want to have to literally remember how to breathe if I keep suppressing my body's sympathetic control of itself for too long. My first attempt is not successful and I abandon it for now—there are more important matters to focus on than breathing.

"I will endeavour to answer those that I can." And I will not answer those that I do not want to.

"Why?" Is choked out of her throat, as though there is a physical obstruction trying to block the words emergence.

Ah, I suppose the pinnacle question is as good a place to start as any. "From my available options, it was the most satisfactory." I wait for the inevitable follow up questions that will attempt to force me into further detail while reminding myself that curiosity is indeed a positive trait.

"So, you did it with intent." Other than the shaking of her words and the pauses between them as she picks out the next what to say, Chapel is handling this exceedingly well.

"Correct."

She swallows, "You said that you thought it was the best choice, do you still think that now that you're not in the middle of it?"

"Yes." I am already standing as straight as I can, so my attempt to further straighten myself only serves to tense my muscles.

"Would—would you do it again?" She finally begins fidgeting, twisting vigorously the spare hair elastic that she has on her wrist.

I run my thumb over the label of the prescription bottle I brought here with me, "I would not." It sounds to my own ears like the truth, but does not sound to me as having come from my lips. I am glad that she only saw the scarring on one arm, and seems to be attributing it to only one attempt.

"I mean, if you were in the_ exact same_ position, would you?" She bites her bottom lip and her gaze seems internally focused, "You said that it still seems like the best choice, so you have to be lying to me about one of the things you just said?" She finally meets my gaze for the first time since we entered this small, sterile room as she says the last part of her sentence, in an oddly questioning tone for something that should be a statement.

I focus on only her first question, having stiffened and stopped my own manner of fidgeting at her accusation. I will not give merit to such a notion through a response to it. "I would consider it a possibility, if I were ever in a similar situation." And that does sound as though it comes from my own lips to me, but this time it rings in my ears as a lie.

"Then I'm afraid I need to ask what the situation was, so I can make a choice as to whether your—it—was justified." She takes a step back and gazes downwards in deference as she asks about a matter that she knows is strictly personal.

"I am not asking you to judge my past actions. I am asking you to make a decision about your own future actions. Have a restful night Nurse." I nod my head towards her and exit the room, with my heart feeling as though it could beat upwards into my chest. At least I have lost manual control over it now.

* * *

"Doctor." I say as I stand just within the entrance to his dimmed office. My voice is far too loud for this level of lighting.

Apparently, the doctor agrees on that point as he jumps in his seat and says in greeting, "Jesus Christ there, I know the door's open but you could of knocked on the frame or somethin'." He stands and leans on his desk, eyes making a side trip to the hypospray he brought with him into his office. "What can I do ya for?" His right hand makes an aborted—and most illogical, as it is well out of his reach—motion towards the hypo before he uses it to brace himself against his desk again.

It is a logical segue, I tell myself. I step inwards and engage my privacy lock on the door, closing it and most importantly keeping it that way. "I believe that a detoxification hypospray would counteract the effects of the prescription I have come here to refill." That McCoy has his doctorate displayed on the wall behind him, slightly above his left shoulder, reminds me that he is more than qualified as I uncurl my hands. He is a professional.

It does not help me in anyway met his eyes as I put the bottle on his ornate desk, careful not to move any of the papers haphazardly set down (it looks like) wherever was most convenient for him at the time. I note that my book is not in here, meaning that it must be in McCoy's personal quarters. For some reason, that helps me finally shift my gaze towards his general direction.

McCoy pushes himself off of his desk with his left hand while picking up the container with his right. He does not seem unduly concerned as he reads the label. "What idiot doctor put ya on this." He sets it down and twists his body to reach the top of the cabinet in the left corner of the room, where his prescription padd is. "Tell me the symptoms and I'm sure I can do better than that." He snorts derisively towards the bottle and taps a pen, which had been in his pocket, against the padd.

My heart rate increases as I realize his misunderstanding, and that I will have to be the one to correct it.


	24. Interlude: Chapel's Choice

"Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved." Bryan

* * *

Interlude: Chapel's Choice Monday, April 23rd, 2258

"I am not asking you to judge my past actions. I am asking you to make a decision about your own future actions. Have a restful night Nurse." He nods his head towards me and exits the room, his posture perfect and as calm as he always is, leaving me here to make my choice.

I still don't know what to do, what I should do; I thought it was my responsibility to do something ... but was he right, am I just being judgmental in thinking that it's up to me, that he can't make his own choices? Commander Spock is the most logical person I know, the most reasonable. I know that he must have had a good reason to do what he did. He is, unfortunately (I sigh and sit down in the visitors set as I think this, dejected) also the most private person I know. And that's saying a lot, seeing as how I've now met Len. That man does not like talking about himself.

I chastise myself for being upset that I can't get close to Spock, no matter that I hold a secret of his. Leonard loudly reminded me well enough, since I told him on Friday that I was waiting for Spock, that Roger and I are still deciding what to do now that I've been called into the service earlier than we both expected. I can't just go around liking everybody that's attractive, no matter how _exotic_ and _intelligent _and_ kind_ they are.

Roger—he does think that maybe he will go explore sooner now, now that I'm out in space too. He got offered a position on a survey team to Exo III. He says it will give us a way to relate to each other when we both return. It's not set in stone, but maybe I should let him know I'm alright with him not waiting for me, if that's what he wants to do. It wouldn't be fair to him if I asked him to stay, when I just can't seem to wait myself; and I'm no hypocrite.

We'll meet up after these five years are over, like he promised we would, and see if it can still work out between us. I think that it might ... Roger's a very patient and understanding man. And we are staying engaged until then, but we've discussed it. We're both free to see other people if they might be _the one_. If they're not, then chances are we'll both be free by the time we see each other again. And he does know that I want to move further in my career, and given the focus he puts on his own, he just can't seem to deny me the ability to make my own choice; no matter that it's not the best for us—not when it is the best choice for me. I do love him.

And I've learned a lot from him. His patience and understanding; I knew that Commander Spock would need time to deal with this, and that he might be nervous. Too nervous to come in when I asked him to. He's amazing, staying in complete control of himself like that when those emotions_ just_ _have to be_ below the surface. Giving him until today to come here wasn't all that hard of a choice.

Letting him make his own choice won't be that difficult.


	25. Treatment

"They told me you had been to her,

And mentioned me to him:

She gave me a good character,

But said I could not swim.

He sent them word I had not gone

(We know it to be true):

If she should push the matter on,

What would become of you?

I gave her one, they gave him two,

You gave us three or more;

They all returned from him to you,

Though they were mine before.

If I or she should chance to be

Involved in this affair,

He trusts to you to set them free,

Exactly as we were.

My notion was that you had been

(Before she had this fit)

An obstacle that came between

Him, and ourselves, and it.

Don't let him know she liked them best,

For this must ever be

A secret, kept from all the rest,

between yourself and me."

Alice's Adventures In Wonderland

* * *

Treatment Monday, April 23rd, 2258

After coming to this realization, there is no logical reason to not inform McCoy of the situation.

I inhale once, holding it for a short count as per T'Pring's training, and then I exhale. I do not swallow, nor make any other outwardly noticeable gestures indicating the sensations I am experiencing.

"Sertraline is the correct prescription." I still cannot seem to meet his eyes with mine. It does not matter much though, I think, as I have memorized what their appearance is.

He thrusts the prescription padd onto the table hard and I am glad that it is not an electronic P.A.D.D., and then he says in the tone he reserves for arguments (or possibly just me, it is difficult to tell as one seems to necessitate the other), "And the symptoms are?" With his hands now free he crosses his arms over his chest.

"Clinical depression, Doctor." I reply in a firm voice, my own stance straightening and finally I shift my eyes to meet with his.

He opens his mouth once, and then snaps his jaw shut. A few seconds later he opens his mouth again, "I'm not just gonna put you on it because you say so." He raises an eyebrow, "So come on, better give me a hell of a good reason." His words and tone are nothing short of a challenge.

"Very well. Are you aware of the withdrawal effects, should you not prescribe at least some amount?" I am still holding eye contact.

McCoy flushes a shade of red that I am well acquainted with; untempered anger. "Damn it." He picks his padd and pen back up, "Half of what that bottle says you're on." He concedes as he scribbles it down. Then he mumbles, loudly enough that he must know I can hear it, "Wish we had something to treat lying with." He tears the paper off, and moves to the filing cabinet. I am surprised that an entire drawer does not end up on the floor when he opens it. As he is flipping rapidly through the collection of papers he says to me, "You ever try pressuring another prescription out of me and it's getting electronically filed."

Tonight, I realize that I am going to end up actively contributing to us arguing with _at least_ my next words. "I have no opposition to such," that is true as medical files remain sealed unless there is a reason for them to be otherwise, "I merely wish that they would develop a cure for denial."

He twitches ... or more accurately, his entire left side, which is the one closest to me, jerks a few inches away. He swings to face me, "Get the hell out of my office. Now." He breaths out, with his eyes closed, "Jus' wait outside for a few minutes."

Over ten minutes later, the door I am standing off to the side of opens and McCoy walks calmly over to the medical replicator, expertly ignoring me. He picks the medication out of the replicator and strides back over to me, then stops directly in-front of me. "Now, before I hand you this, if you _were_ tellin' the truth, you wouldn't mind checking in about how this works out now would you? And who knows, cognitive therapy could help some too."

I keep steady and neutral, posture aloof. "It did, when I went to a Vulcan healer." T'Pring. I remember the first time I conversed with her.

_A Vulcan female, that I recognize from a single shared meal with both our families present, is standing unaccompanied at the entrance to my home. I have just returned from my learning facility and there is approximately an hour before my mother arrives home, and a range of 54-55 minutes exactly until my father reaches the house. I search through my mind for her name. "T'Pring." I nod my head towards her in greeting, and step slightly away from the round doorway should she wish to enter the greeting room which holds only a table with four seats._

_She steps in, "Spock," she begins without preamble, "It is not logical that we bond."_

_I examine her before replying. I can detect no trace of personal dislike from any of her outward actions. That means nothing though, for she is a full Vulcan; even if I know that other full Vulcans have displayed such distaste. "What is your logic?" I inquire._

_She mirrors my stance by folding her hands elegantly behind her back before speaking. "You are half human," I nod, acknowledging her point, even while I begin to format my prepared response to this statement to our specific situation. She, unexpectedly, continues speaking, "Meaning that I cannot know if a bond with you is breakable. As I intend to be a Vulcan mind-healer, bonding with you to any degree is not logical."_

_I absorb this information. No, it is not logical, at all. A mind healer has to remain unbonded. After a minute—an enforced time limit on my part to think on what I need to say—I speak. "Are your parents aware of this decision?"_

_She squares her shoulder and looks directly at me. "Yes, which is why they arranged for us to be bonded."_

_I motion T'Pring further into the household, the next room inwards being a study alcove; it holds the door to the living areas. I ignore her to a degree so I may think. Finally, I find a viable solution. However, it is not an ideal one. I ask her, "Do you have a further course of action planned?"_

_Her mouth becomes an even thinner line, her face even more neutral. "I cannot conceive of any route to my desired destination given the circumstances."_

_I at look directly at her. "We will not bond." _

_The corners of her mouth turn fractionally downwards. "Until you are considered an adult, what you say will not matter." _

_I raise an eyebrow. "Exactly." I pause for a moment to allow her to follow my words to their logical conclusion. "I will complete my Kahs-wan before our bonding ceremony."_

_Her eyes widen momentarily before she nods and speaks, "I must leave now." I watch her exit, back just as stiff as when she entered, yet more stiff than when she was thinking over my last words._

_With her gone the area around me suddenly seems emptier, even as it seems larger. _

Doctor McCoy snorts out, "All the more reason to try it with a mere human."

I tilt my head, finally considering something I had overlooked before, with my inclination to think of McCoy as I would a healer. "You are trained in psychology?"

He inhales deeply and follows it with an exhale before patiently replying, "I already had my medical license before I joined Starfleet. They were willing to let that be the equivalent of their program," He snorts, "As if theirs is that good." He gets back on point, "But I still had to complete a degree with them. Picked clinical psychology, so I don't have to rely on idiots prescribing stuff to my patients." He looks pointedly at me, "Or_ idiots _thinking that they can prescribe themselves."

I lightly grip the bottle that is still in his hands and tug. He allows himself to let go. "Doctor McCoy, if you would like, I can unseal the portion of my medical file detailing why this is the correct medication for me to be on." I let the words follow the trend of gentleness that my grip on the bottle had—I did work purposely to aggravate him earlier.

His brows draw together in confusion and his eyes narrow. "There are no sealed portions of your medical file."

"It was sealed at the request of the head of the V'Shar." I say in explanation.

McCoy leans his head forward, thumb and forefingers rubbing over the bridge of his nose. "Help me out here."

"The head of the government security organization previously on Vulcan." I say in clearer explanation.

"Great. Just great, any other non-existent files I should know about." His hand has stopped moving but he still holds himself in the same position.

I consider his wording carefully. Non-existent files obviously do not existent, which is not the case for the files I am referring to. And, he does not need to know about them regardless. "No."

"Good. Now, get the hell outta my sickbay." He sighs out.

* * *

I hold one of the pills between my fingers, examining it. I do not think that having a smaller dose will significantly affect me, as until recently I had been off of the medication completely. Just ... just until their memories are not the focus of my meditations.

I flick my fingers and swallow.


	26. 180 Degrees of Separation

"Better [to] be ignorant of a matter than half know it." Syrus

* * *

180 Degrees of Separation Saturday, April 28th, 2258

My scientific report for this week is not yet finished. It is adequate; however I was hoping to consult with Lieutenant Alden in my coming visit with him. He has, quite reasonably, been unable to assist me of late. I pause in the hallway leading to the sickbay—the door left of the main entrance is closed and I cannot hear any sound from within. That is odd, as I have never yet seen Doctor McCoy close his office door during work hours if it is not for an appointment.

Quiet unexpectedly, a voice speaks on the other side of the door. "I just don't know what to do, Bones." It is the captain. Satisfied that there is a logical reason for the door to be closed, I begin moving again. My pace slows though as I realize that the captain does not have an appointment with the doctor. I would have made myself aware of such.

"Well, what _have_ you tried?" I hear McCoy ask.

A pause, during which I tilt my head towards the door even as I continue slowly moving "All I could think of was giving him a chance in private to say I told you so." A frustrated sigh follows his words, and my pace slows once more as I wonder whether this is a conversation that I should be aware of, "It just feels like he's going to constantly hold it over my head." It sounds as though the matter is disturbing the captain. It is good then, that he decided on his own to address it. However, it is my responsibility to support the captain in all that he does. Perhaps if I can hear more of what is being said, I could think of a solution to implement.

There is a slosh of some liquid in a glass, which I remind myself I cannot be sure is alcoholic. "Can't jus' be always waiting for the other shoe to drop Jim." I have not heard that tone from the doctor, soft and slow, yet sure. I stand still, knowing that I am interested in more than just the conversation that is happening on the other side of the door.

A longer pause, "You need to catch up with the 23rd century." There is one thing that the captain and I can agree on. Then quieter, "I know, but in case you haven't noticed his shoes tend to be rather big."

There is a snort, a setting of the glass on a table, and the sound of some rather concerning chortling coming from McCoy. Another sound that I have not heard from him, again motivating me to stay as I am.

"What?" It sounds both irritated and confused, although without accompanying facial expressions I cannot be sure. The question is followed by the sound of some coughing, "Jesus—Bones!" Mumbling from the captain, "I am never coming to you for advice again." The sound of a chair moving then feet on the floor. I initiate a brisk pace to sickbay.

"Jim, sit back down." A chair is moving again, and I can no longer hear kirk's feet on the floor. In a serious voice, "When you say in private what setting are we talking about exactly?"

"A chess game." Involuntarily, I stop. I was not aware that the captain had invited others to play chess as well. Perhaps I could ask him if he would recommend any other players to me. He keeps speaking "I thought it went well at the time, great even, but latter I realized he'd just—nothing Bones, not a word about the crash." The captain's words begin to increase in speed, much the same manner as my heart is currently doing. "I think that even Spock can't have moved on from it that quick, so if he didn't say anything what does that mean? That it's me he doesn't want to talk to about it." A soft noise, "He blames me and damn it all to goddamn hell if he isn't right!" The sentence is punctuated with the slam of a glass on a table. I feel frozen to the spot, and acknowledge that I should not have let my curiosity get the better of me.

Then McCoy speaks in a gentle voice, "Have you ever thought that maybe ... just maybe, Spock doesn't blame you?"

A laugh, "Who else is there to blame." It is not a question.

"Well, him." I find that my feet are indeed able to carry me quickly into the sickbay.

* * *

The lights are somewhat dimmed, given the approaching late hour. It is though, as always, impossible to mistake the nature of this place as anything other than a medical facility: no matter the advancements in medicine the smell indicating chemicals cannot quite be counteracted, and the sterile setup is only logical to avoid the spread of infections. The only aspect of places such as these though, that has even managed to slip passed my barriers, is the fact that everything used to cure is so readily disposable. A subset to that is that the people themselves seem always transient.

"Spock." Alden smiles widely at me from his upright position on the biobed nearest the door. He appears fully healed. And to have more pillows on his bed then are on the ones around him, although, I acknowledge however that those ones are thankfully not in use.

"Lieutenant Alden," I nod in greeting. "You requested my presences."

His smile dims, matching to the lighting of this place, "Would you mind taking a seat?"

Generally, I prefer standing. "Of course not." I sit calmly, glad for the relief given to my legs by the action. A few moments later I am still waiting for Alden to speak. Eventually, he settles for grabbing the P.A.D.D. on the table next to him, tapping a few buttons before he hands it to me. It is ... it is a request for a transfer off-ship, with no explanation. "Should you not consult with the captain?" he is well aware of the proper chain of command, and although this falls into it, I am aware of the insult contained in the action as is he.

"Spock," He sighs out, "you're the head of my department, and the longest serving command officer on this ship. I'd rather consult with you." He pauses and sighs out yet again, "It's personal, and I respect you."

"You should," I set the P.A.D.D. on the side table, "also respect the captain."

Hey slowly nods his head in a lateral motion, and says in a confident tone, "I do. Tell me, do you think that I should tell him that what I saw in that shuttlecraft was so horrible I don't think that I can do this anymore? Should I concern him about the situation his first officer was in when he's new to command, new to starships even?" I consider his words, adapting quickly to the knowledge that he had not lost consciousness immediately upon impact, and think back to the conversation I overheard on my way here. No, the captain does not need to worry about my reaction to the crash any more than he already is. I grab the P.A.D.D. off of the bedside table and use the stylus to sign my signature.

I rise from my seat, "Working with you has been most satisfactory." I intone, looking to a point that is behind him.

"Spock," Alden says before I can turn and leave, and I give him my attention. "Get some rest." I turn and leave. I hear a sigh coinciding with the whoosh of the door as it opens before me.

I make it halfway to the turbolift before the door to Doctor McCoy's office opens and James Kirk calls from behind me, "Mr. Spock, fancy seeing you here." He semi-jogs until he is next to me, "I was hoping I could have another game of chess with you."

"No thank you, Captain." I resist the urge to increase my pace. As is our steps are already mismatched to each others and Mr. Kirk is being forced to keep an awkward gait.

"How about Go then?" He persists.

"I am not familiar with Go." I am, however, familiar with the urge_ to go_.

We stop in front of the turbolift, "Well then, it looks like I can finally teach you something." He smiles and clasps a hand over my shoulder.

"Captain." I stress the word, "I must decline, I will be busy for the foreseeable future."

"Mr. Spock," Kirk gasps in mock drama, "I wasn't aware you could see the future." The turbolift dings its arrival as its doors open.

I step into the turbolift before Kirk, a split second of illogical thought having me longing for the doors to close before he can enter, although he is directly behind me. "Very well, Captain," he begins grinning but I continue before he can misshape my words, "it is my opinion that I will be busy for the next while."

Kirks grin hasn't entirely faded and he says simply, "I'm afraid that I must insist."

"Very well, Mr. Kirk." I say, knowing it would be unwise to say anything different or anything more. At any rate, it will be best to appease him _before_ he realizes I signed off on a transfer request without informing him.

"What," he jokes, "no Captain _or_ Jim?"

* * *

"You know," Kirk glances up at me, "you could try talking."

I do not remove my gaze from the board, "I am aware," I pick up a piece, "however, I wish to focus on a new learning experience." I reply evenly. I move my piece. Kirk has made a slight change to his quarters; the two seats reserved for this single table have been replaced with seats having cushions on them. Given that he has a kitchenette island as I do, and a work desk, I wonder what else he uses this table for if anything. It had, tellingly, had to be moved out of a corner for us to use it.

"You caught on pretty quick." he protests. When he recives no reply he continues on, "I think I'll just talk for the both of us, then." Kirk says casually, as he holds his piece in his hand, "I just wanted to say that I realize no one was at fault for what happened, and I hope you don't think that anybody is either." He places the stone down.

It is my turn, "I believe it was I that originally implied such, sir." It is my only reply. We have no further conversation that night, and not enough time to finish our game.

* * *

I hold one of the pills between my fingers, before flicking and swallowing. A moment later I hold another pill between my fingers, examining it.


	27. 359 Degrees of Separation

"Humor brings insight and tolerance. Irony brings a deeper and less friendly understanding." Repplier

* * *

359 Degrees of Separation Tuesday, May 1st, 2258

The lines of code at my station are scrolling past at a pace exceeding the pre-programmed 30 frames per second; the standard for visual differentiation in humans. The increased display rate is itself another line of code, one for a variable frame display of up to 100 fps, dependent on my response time. Today, my estimate of my own performance is 70 fps. And this rate, given my augmented coding, slows as my response time decreases at the sound of a person approaching me directly. "How are those reports coming along, Mr. Spock?" The captain inquires in an offhand manner as he makes it to my station while doing his rounds; which is, I have to admit, a rather ingenious idea of his to gain the familiarity that is required of him in running a starship, given unique manner in which he moved through the chain of command would otherwise limit his knowledge permanently. And, until the time which he has gained the knowledge he would have otherwise obtained in practicum before his current post, I will continue with minimizing his required duties.

"As I have stated Captain," I begin without looking away from my screen, "the weekly date on which they will be given to you has been changed to Wednesday." Ah, that is beneficial. I can delegate the replicator's nutritional and physical matter output to the medical department. "Now, if you do not mind, Captain, _I_ am busy." My suitability to doing that task was somewhat—suspect—to begin with.

He places a hand, briefly, on my shoulder and follows the action with the words, "Of course, you always are." He says it with some measure of self amusement, before beginning to move away from my station. He stops before he gets too far, and I have that oft reported sensation that humans claim of 'being watched', "Just do remember to take some time for yourself every now and again, Mister."

The end of Kirks words are caught by Dr. McCoy as he emerges from the turbolift, and he decides to quip in with a, "Yessir-y , even you need to recharge." He continues with moving towards the captain and I, "Mind sparing a few seconds?" He comes to a stop at my station. It takes me a few second alone to realize that he is addressing me, and not the captain.

I still do not remove my gaze from the screen—my workload has increased significantly since Alden's departure. It would appear that he was taking the same approach to me that I am currently taking to the captain. That fact, at least, is of some wry amusement. The fact that I missed it, despite Alden's care in only handing matters arising from the recent changes, is not at all amusing. "I cannot spare any time at this moment." I intone.

"Yeah, well, then you'd better make some time." McCoy replies without hesitation.

I engage in a rapid set of calculations, gaining a unbiased estimator of my distraction. My screen is currently displaying 37 fps. "The logistics of such make it an impossibility." Is my even response.

"Commander, I _am_ having a conversation with you. Consider it a medical order." I see a slight reflection of McCoy in my computer screen as he imposes more on my physical space.

"He takes those really, really seriously, you know?" Kirk comments from his position, leaning casually on my console.

I finally turn my visual attention towards the intruders, not concerned about the scrolling information on the computer screen; with my response time reduced to zero it will remain on the frame it is currently at. "Perhaps after shift would be suitable, Doctor?"

"Nope," He says, and at my raised eyebrow explains, "After you're off shift, I'm on shift. And I've got work to do too, maybe not as important as all you're calculations—I mean, what's one Ensign?" McCoy finishes sarcastically.

I raise my eyebrow slightly more, "Then perhaps you should book an appointment with me beforehand, Doctor." I say in cool, even tones.

Surprisingly, McCoy lets out a chuckle that, although obviously agitated, is in some parts clearly amused. When he finishes a few moments later he speaks, "well, I'll be, that one's gotta be a first. Here's a social norm for ya, Spock, usually it's the doctor that tells the patient to just book an appointment." The captain, after he understands the humour of the situation McCoy has explained, begins on his own laughing spurt.

My mouth thins as my brow lowers and draws inward. "You find infringing on my time to be humorous?" My voice has quickly gone from cool to cold. The ability to decide one's own routine, within reasonable parameters, is an aspect of autonomy.

The Captain is the one to respond, having gone from amused to annoyed rather rapidly himself. "You know, Spock, he's already made it a medical order, but you don't seem to _respect_ that. So now, I'm making it an order too. Go talk to Bones." With finality he adds, "**Now**."

It is clear to me that there is to be no further arguing on the matter, so I rise from my seat, each movement deliberate. Once standing perfectly straight I address McCoy. "Lead the way."

Before the turbolift rises to met us the captain calls to me, "And Spock, either follow orders, or at least get better at _pretending_ that you follow them any better than I do." I cannot discern the nature of his comment, so I simply board the now present turbolift alongside Doctor McCoy.

* * *

I am unsurprised to be lead to Doctor McCoy's office. He opens the door, and continues to hold it open until I enter behind him, at which point he departs from it's sensor range. He speaks before either of us are seated, letting out a loud whistle then commenting, "That was quiet a show ya put on back there. And here I was trying to be all nice and discuss this in private without going into your free time, seeing as how you're reluctant enough as is." He lounges comfortably into his seat as he finishing speaking. The, in a tone not resembling a rant, he says dryly, "Go on, take a seat, those things on them are called cushions. They're for comfort." He gestures magnanimously towards the aforementioned seat.

I sit, declining my inclination to raise a brow in question—this human would necessitate a constant expression of such, if I did so every time I felt the need. "What, precisely, is it that you wish to discuss?"

He sputters out, "Why—you—bloody green-blooded hobgoblin." he regains his composure before continuing. "I thought that would be damned obvious."

Nor do I follow my inclination to sigh. "My medication is performing as expected." The images are_ less_ visceral during my meditations, and the nightmares more infrequent.

McCoy sits there, thinking for 58 seconds before he finally speaks. His voice is usually gentle. "And how did you expect it to perform?"

"Adequately." There is no more numbing sadness. The sadness is absent.

"An' anything you'd like to talk about?" Still, that same gentleness permeates his voice, almost hypnotic. It is the same tone I had overheard him use with Kirk.

"Indeed," I see something flare in McCoy's expression."The nutritional and physical matter output of the replicators is now under the purview of the medical department." That flare blinks out, replaced by a glowing indignation.

"Okay, let me be clearer hear," he huffs out, "anything therapeutic you'd like to talk 'bout?"

I carefully consider my reply. Then, I answer with, "Talk therapy does not have any limitations on it as to matters available for discussion. Hence there is nothing inherently un-therapeutic about my previous reply."

I hear a slight scrape of teeth against teeth, and notice the tick that McCoy has seemed to develop. Through barred teeth, "Okay, what do you think of _cognitive_ therapy?"

Now, I do raise a brow. "You believe that items such as the Rorschach Inkblot Test would be of aid?"

"Spock," McCoy eases his jaw, with obvious and dedicated effort, "_Please _stop being an **ass**. I am _not_ the ships therapist; I am not obligated to offer my services in this mumbo-jumbo field at all. Can't even say they'd let me treat a Vulcan in any official capacity. I'm jus' trying to be helpful, so could you return the favor?"

After a tense pause, I speak. "I feel."

McCoy blinks at me, incredulous, before grinning wryly. "Well, would you look at that, a starting point. Gonna continue there commander?"

I add to my previous statement, "In regards to recent events."

McCoy, leaning forward and eager, prompts, "Okay, you feel in regards to recent events; what do you feel?"

The chemicals I coerced out of McCoy have lessened the numbing sadness. Now, now there is merely numbness. I decide on a half truth. "It is nothing Doctor. If that is all?" I rise from my seat without awaiting a reply.

"Yeah, fine Spock, off with you." He waves to the door, engrossed in paperwork before I even reach it, however ... I stop before exiting.

"Doctor McCoy?" I begin.

He looks up, sighing out, "'Course when I start the paperwork you'll start talking. Just figures." When I do not immediately respond he adds in, "Hurry it up."

"I merely wish to state that I trust you will _book_ these appointments in the future."

Not missing my implied willingness for future sessions McCoy smilies as he speaks his next words, "You got it."

* * *

At the end of the shifts, Jim accosts me as we are both walking down the hallway leading to our separate quarters. "Mister Spock, mind if I have a word with you for a moment?"

I stop, forcing him to follow suit. "Yes, sir?"

He glances about the hallway, assuring himself that it is empty, before he speaks. "Bones said he's going to be needing you the same time every week." There is a slight pause as he sighs out, no less tense for the action, "Can you just not put up a fight each time?" Before I can reply, he continues, "Well, I _do_ get that you and Bones really don't get along well most of the time. So maybe, just wait to fight until you're off the bridge, okay? United front and everything."

"Of course, Jim." And, as I had hoped, some of the tension leaves his shoulders at both my response, and it's wording.

"And Spock."

"Yes?"

"If you do put on a show like that again, our movie night show will be a romance. Just think about that. A romance. With me and Bones, **and** Chekov if he joins us" He grins slightly, clamps his hand right hand over my left shoulder, and remains that way for 3 full seconds before breaking contact.

I cringe slightly as he releases me. "I will keep that in mind."

* * *

Continuing on with my work in my quarters, I manage to finish the system I have been developing for my new workload. Finishing, I reflect briefly on the fact that it is probably not a good sign that my range of vision seems slightly square shaped even when I am not looking at a monitor.

I take only one pill that night. Later in the night that choice finds me vomiting into the toilet from my very visceral, very numerous nightmares.

Before I attempt sleep again, I swallow down two more pills, the water they are accompanied with cleaning out my throat.


End file.
